"I've got a bit of the real quietness inside me."
"So has a dog on a mat."
"So I believe, too."
"Or a man in a pub."
"Which I don't believe."
"You prefer the dog?"
"Maybe."
There was silence for a few moments.
"And I'm the man in the pub," said Aaron.
"You aren't the dog on the mat, anyhow."
"And you're the idol on the mountain top, worshipping yourself."
"You talk to me like a woman, Aaron."
"How do you talk to me, do you think?"
"How do I?"
"Are the potatoes done?"
Lilly turned quickly aside, and switched on the electric light. Everything changed. Aaron sat still before the fire, irritated. Lilly went about preparing the supper.
The room was pleasant at night. Two tall, dark screens hid the two beds. In front, the piano was littered with music, the desk littered with papers. Lilly went out on to the landing, and set the chops to grill on the gas stove. Hastily he put a small table on the hearth-rug, spread it with a blue-and-white cloth, set plates and glasses. Aaron did not move. It was not his nature to concern himself with domestic matters—and Lilly did it best alone.
The two men had an almost uncanny understanding of one another—like brothers. They came from the same district, from the same class. Each might have been born into the other's circumstance Like brothers, there was a profound hostility between them. But hostility is not antipathy.
Lilly's skilful housewifery always irritated Aaron: it was so self-sufficient. But most irritating of all was the little man's unconscious assumption of priority. Lilly was actually unaware that he assumed this quiet predominance over others. He mashed the potatoes, he heated the plates, he warmed the red wine, he whisked eggs into the milk pudding, and
