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odour of the burnt kettle, added to the mingled odours of stale and forgotten viands, strangled appetite.

Harley sniffed disgustedly as he entered the room. It had been a picture of white neatness when Grace had worked here; now it was a hole. Time it was cleaned up.

He had grown accustomed to the absence of clean cups. He rinsed his breakfast cup beneath the tap, scuffling the broken crockery aside with his feet. The tea-pot had not been emptied since breakfast, and he scuffled the broken crockery in other directions as he made his way to the back door. It did not occur to him to use a broom.

He used four matches in lighting the gas-jet beneath the kettle, and swore whole-heartedly when the kettle leaked as he attempted to fill it. He was compelled to rinse a saucepan, and he handled the dishcloth with a respect engendered by its age. When he had set the water to boil he sorted out the least stale half-loaf in the bread-bin, and carved a thick slice which he coated liberally with butter and jam.

When the saucepan commenced to hiss Harley commenced to search for tea. When the water had been boiling for three minutes Harley was convinced that there was no tea in the house. He had used the last of it for breakfast. He scuffled salt and crockery under the stove as he turned out the gas. The bread-and-jam was dotted with enthusiastic house-flies, while a swarm of others hovered above it. Harley’s appetite departed utterly.

He threw the slice of bread-and-jam into the long grass of the back lawn.

Lunch was finished.

“What an unholy mess!” he exclaimed aloud as he poured some of the hot water into his shaving-mug.

With the steaming mug in his hand he stood and surveyed the kitchenette.