into Paradise Street, which was close at hand. He had
decided to call and ask for Ackroyd on his way home. The latter had not
been at work that day, and was perhaps ailing; for some time he had
seemed out of sorts. Intercourse between them was not as constant as
formerly. Grail explained this as due to Ackroyd's disturbed mood,
another result of which was seen in his ceasing to attend the lecture;
yet in Gilbert also there was something which tended to weaken the
intimacy. He knew well enough what this was, and strove against it, but
not with great success.

Ackroyd lived with his married sister, who let half her house to
lodgers. When Gilbert knocked at the door, it was she who opened. Mrs.
Poole was a buxom young woman with a complexion which suggested
continual activity within range of the kitchen fire; her sleeves were
always rolled up to her elbow, and at whatever moment surprised she
wore an apron which seemed just washed and ironed. She knew not
weariness, nor discomfort, nor discontent, and her flow of words
suggested a safety valve letting off superfluous energy.

'That Mr. Grail?' she said, peering out into the darkness. 'You've come
to look after that great good-for-nothing of a brother of mine, I'll be
bound! Come downstairs, and I'll tell him you're here. You may well
wonder what's become of him. Ill! Not he, indeed! No more ill than I
am. It's only his laziness. He wants a good shaking, that's about the
truth of it, Mr. Grail.'

She led him down into the kitchen. A low clothes-horse, covered with
fresh-smelling, gently-steaming linen, stood before a great glowing
fire. A baby lay awake in a swinging cot just under the protruding leaf
of the table, and a little girl of three was sitting in night-dress and
shawl on a stool in a warm corner.

'Yes, you may well stare,' resumed Mrs. Poole, noticing Grail's glance
at the children. 'A quarter past ten and neither one of 'em shut an eye
yet, nor won't do till their father comes home, not if it's twelve
o'clock. You dare to laugh, Miss!' she cried to the little one on the
stool, with mock wrath. 'The idea of having to fetch you out o' bed
just for peace and quietness. And that young man there'--she pointed to
the cradle; 'there's about as much sleep ill him as there is in that
eight-day clock! You rascal, you!'

Like her brother, she had the northern accent still lingering in her
speech; it suited with her brisk, hearty ways. Whilst speaking, she had
partly