must wipe his feet "well" on the
mat. In obeying this order he experienced a thrill of satisfaction
he could not account for. He must have stood shuffling his boots
vigorously for a full minute. This, he told himself, was life. He,
Albert Grapp, was alive. And the world was full of other men, all
alive; and yet, because they were not doing Miss Wrackgarth's bidding,
none of them really lived. He was filled with a vague melancholy. But
his melancholy pleased him.

In the parlour he found Jos awaiting him. The table was laid for
three.

"So you're here, are you?" said the host, using the Five Towns
formula. "Emily's in the kitchen," he added. "Happen she'll be here
directly."

"I hope she's tol-lol-ish?" asked Albert.

"She is," said Jos. "But don't you go saying that to her. She doesn't
care about society airs and graces. You'll make no headway if you
aren't blunt."

"Oh, right you are," said Albert, with the air of a man who knew his
way about.

A moment later Emily joined them, still wearing her kitchen apron. "So
you're here, are you?" she said, but did not shake hands. The servant
had followed her in with the tray, and the next few seconds were
occupied in the disposal of the beef and trimmings.

The meal began, Emily carving. The main thought of a man less
infatuated than Albert Grapp would have been "This girl can't cook.
And she'll never learn to." The beef, instead of being red and brown,
was pink and white. Uneatable beef! And yet he relished it more than
anything he had ever tasted. This beef was her own handiwork. Thus
it was because she had made it so.... He warily refrained from
complimenting her, but the idea of a second helping obsessed him.

"Happen I could do with a bit more, like," he said.

Emily hacked off the bit more and jerked it on to the plate he had
held out to her.

"Thanks," he said; and then, as Emily's lip curled, and Jos gave him
a warning kick under the table, he tried to look as if he had said
nothing.

Only when the second course came on did he suspect that the meal was a
calculated protest against his presence. This a Christmas pudding? The
litter of fractured earthenware was hardly held together by the suet
and raisins. All his pride of manhood--and there was plenty of pride
mixed up with Albert Grapp's humility--dictated a refusal to touch
that pudding. Yet he soon found himself touching it, though gingerly,
with his spoon and fork.

In the matter of dealing with scr