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you can’t,” speaking at the top of his voice.
    â€œI shan’t disturb you,” said Kilkey, and left the kitchen. He went upstairs to his room. “Have to get him something to wear. Nothing here’ll fit. He’s changed greatly. like a stranger.”
    Peter came into the room. “A woman has just come in,” he said. “I came up here. I’ll wait. You better see her.”
    â€œIt’s Mrs. Turner,” replied the old man. “When it’s time to come down, I’ll knock on the ceiling.”
    From a top drawer of the dressing-table he took a box of cigarettes which he handed to his brother in law.
    â€œNever smoke them. Keep them here just in case——” and he shuffled out of the room. The moment the door closed Peter stretched himself out on the bed.
    â€œI’ll get away to the States. I’ll find Cavanagh. Delaney’s quite right, it’s no use thinking of yesterday, and there’s nothing you can patch up. I’ll go and see him in the morning. In a month I’ll be in New York, it’s hard to believe I can do it,” and he began staring round the room, noting every little object in it. Like the lower part of the house, everything was tidy, scrupulously clean. It was a bachelor’s room, and it signalled to him the end of a chapter, a final resignation.
    â€œShe’ll never come back. Wonder what he really thinks? Hell, it’s sad, he’s old, old, you can see that. And all on his own. Wonder what his son is like?”
    Cigarette followed cigarette; the room was thick with smoke when the old man returned.
    â€œAll right, now. You can come down. She’s gone. Hot meal ready. Come along, son.”
    He followed the old man down. The table was laid for two.
    â€œMake yourself comfortable, at home. At any time this is your home. You know that.” They began to eat.
    â€œI’m going out at half-past five this evening. Night shift. Overhauling a beef boat, she’s in the graving-dock.” Smiling, he added, “You see, I still work.”
    Again Peter nodded, but he saw no ship, only the box-like kitchen, the small, yellow-stained ceiling, the clutter of familiar objects. They cried aloud to him that life was no bigger, and never would be. Here was an old man, still living in a box, after fifteen years.
    â€œMore cheese? Have some more tea. Don’t know whether you take a drink, Peter, my housekeeper would have got you something,” but the visitor waved a hand, and went on eating.
    â€œSeen anybody at all since you came out?”
    â€œA Mr. Delaney.”
    â€œA good man,” Kilkey said, “a very nice man, and sensible. Spent the whole of his life at that kind of work. More bread?”
    â€œNo, thanks. I’m finished,” Peter said, and pushed away his plate. “Mr. Delaney said you would tell me about mother,” he said. He got up, pushed his chair to the wall, and went and sat in a small rocker by the fire. “He told me to ask you.”
    Kilkey went on eating. He had heard nothing.
    â€œOld man must be deaf, stone deaf.” He went and stood behind him, he spoke very loudly in his ear, and Kilkey gave a little jump, he stopped eating.
    â€œDelaney said you would tell me about my mother. I want to know, now ,” he shouted.
    Kilkey rose, and he did not look at the man. He began to clear the table. He shuffled in and out of the kitchen; he made a pretence of tidying things on the dresser, he crossed to the pipe rack, tried the stems, put the pipes back again. He searched in a drawer for nothing in particular, and Peter was always watching him. Suddenly he took a seat beside Peter, leaned forward.
    â€œYou ask me ?”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI can’t tell you. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.”
    â€œWhere did it happen? In the home?”
    Kilkey smoked his pipe, he hardly appeared to have noticed the question. He saw the