"For one."
She went away, and Mr. Roland waited twenty minutes, and when the tea tray did arrive he noticed that the girl had forgotten to fill the milk jug.
"I take milk with my tea."
She whisked the jug away. Sorrell was tucking letters under the tapes on the green letter-board, and he happened to turn and catch Mr. Roland's eye. A faint, sympathetic and understanding smile seemed to pass between them.
"You haven't forgotten that tube?"
"No, sir. It has been done. I put it in the dicky."
"Did you pay?"
"Yes, sir. Two shillings."
"Thanks."
A two-shilling piece passed from Roland's hand to Sorrell's, and again their eyes met and smiled.
Sorrell felt cheered, though he had no great reason for feeling cheered. He went upstairs to No. 15, possessed himself of Mr. Roland's brown shoes, two pairs of them, and cleaned them as they had not been cleaned for a month.
Dinner was late.
Roland was chatting in the lounge with a big and genial person who had grown suddenly testy with hunger. The genial man was asking his casual acquaintance to explain to him how it was that a certain stereotyped piece of work that was done day by day could not be made to keep pace with the clock.
"We abuse machines,—but hang it all—they have rhythm."
Roland laughed softly.
"Well,—I don't suppose it will be anything great when it does come. And I think I could give you the menu."
"Guessing?"
"No, the law of averages. We shall begin with tomato soup, go on to tough chops—boiled potatoes and cabbage, pass thence to fruit salad, tinned apricots and stewed prunes. And we shall finish with rather bad cheese."
"I don't care what it is," said the testy man. "I feel inclined to go and hammer that gong."
