Reds. Bolsheviki. The ex-soldiers seemed dissatisfied. Why didn't they go to work in the cloak and suit business? No one else wanted to. There should be plenty of room for them there. He wasn't sleepy, but he could think of nothing else to do but go to bed. Drains was in the kitchen. Harold retreated to the bedroom where he found a pair of silk pyjamas, striped in two shades of grey, with the name of an English firm embroidered on a label in the collar, lying on the bed. Drawing off his clothes, he donned them, and was just ready to retire when Drains came in. Drains was beaming.
Can I do anything more for you, sir, before I leave?
Leave?
For the night, sir. There is no place for me to sleep here. I shall be in very early in the morning. What time will you have your breakfast, sir?
Seven-thirty . . . Harold hesitated. Would that be too early?
Not at all, sir. But Drains looked distinctly disapproving. Very good, sir, he added. Breakfast for two?
Two? Certainly not. Breakfast for one. Why two?
You will excuse me, sir, but I heard you telephoning to a young lady and I thought perhaps you had asked her to spend the night with you.
Harold almost fell out of bed.
