He wrote on into the night. He found a certain crookedness in his ideas which made him tear up several [280] efforts—he once even found himself writing to Jerry, a proceeding which struck him with peculiar horror. The hours ticked on; the big constellations swung solemnly across the uncurtained window (luckily Policeman was in bed, and did not see the lozenge of gold lamplight that lay in Mrs. Hubble’s backyard). Inside the room the cat prowled to and fro, miaowling to be let out for a scamper on the barn-roofs—at last, he jumped on the table and, upsetting the cocoa, lapped his fill and retired to dignified repose. The mice tapped on the glass front of their cage with little pink hands like anemones.... Mr. Sumption for once did not notice his animals; he sat brooding over the table long after he had finished writing. Then, as the sky was fading into light, and big greyish-white clouds like mushrooms were banking towards the east, he dropped asleep, his head fallen over the back of his chair, with the mouth a little open, his arms hanging at his sides.

The daylight fought with the lamplight, and as with a sudden crimson rift it won the victory, Mr. Sumption woke—from dreams full of the roaring of a forge and his own arm swung above his head, as in the old days at Bethersden. He sat for a few moments rubbing his eyes, feeling very stiff and cold. Then he realised that he was hungry. The supper-tray was still before him, swimming in cocoa. He ate the bread—dry, because the minister was one of those greedy souls who devour their week’s ration of butter in the first three days, and neither jam nor cheese was to be had in Sunday Street, even if he could have afforded them. When he had eaten all the bread, he began to feel thirsty. He longed for a cup of tea. Overhead in the attic there was a trampling, which told him that Mrs. Hubble would soon be down to boil the kettle. He hung about the stairhead till she appeared—shouting back at her father-in-law, who would not get [281] up, and generally in a bad mood for her lodger’s service.

However, to his surprise, she was quite obliging—he did not know what his night had made of him. She hurried down to the kitchen to light the fire, and bade him come too and warm himself. Mr. Sumption would have preferred to be alone, but he was beginning to feel very cold, and a kind of weakness was upon him, so he came and sat by her fire, and drank gratefully the big, strong cup of tea she gave him.

“You’ve had bad news of Mus’ Jerry, I reckon,” said Mrs. Hubble.

Mr. Sumption nodded, and warmed his hands round the cup. He could not bring himself to say that Jerry was dead.

“This is a tar’ble war,” continued Mrs. Hubble, “and I reckon those are best off wot are put out of it”—this was to find out what really had happened to Jerry. “I often think,” she added piously, “of the happy lot of the dead—no more trouble, no more pain, no more worriting after absent friends, no more standing in queues. I often think, minister, as it’s a pity we aun’t all dead.”

“Maybe, maybe,” said Mr. Sumption.

He rose and walked restlessly out ............