She gets up and moves slowly into the house without bothering to put on her straw hat again. From the cupboard underneath the stairs she takes out the lamp with a saucepan fixed above it and carries it into the kitchen. She fills the saucepan by dipping it into the washing-up water, and puts the two eggs in, then lights the lamp from the box on the shelf over the range. Bubbles very soon appear mysteriously from nowhere in the water, and these grow more and more, till the eggs move uneasily at the number of them. Eggs, why do chickens come out of eggs? It was like a conjuring trick, darling little yellow wooly, fluffy things who were always hurrying into trouble! But she knew just how the hen felt with them, it would be wonderful. How long had they been in? Oh dear, the heat and the smell! Poor eggs, it was rather hard on them. This must be about right, and she turns the flame off. Now for the bread and the kippers in tomato sauce and plates and spoons and cups and--the milk, she had forgotten the milk. And she could not go to Mrs. Donner’s, it was too hot. Father would have to drink gin, he wouldn’t mind, but she would, she hated it. She went to the door of his room and beat upon it with the palm of her hand, leaving damp marks wherever she touched it. “Father, dinner is ready.” His voice answered, “All right.” It was weary, but with a stronger note. He shambles into the room dejectedly. “Oh, it is hot, it is hot.” “Yes. Father, here’s an egg.” “Thank you. Oh, dear.” They begin to eat, he carefully, and she roughly. He takes up his cup to drink. “Milk.” “There isn’t any left.” “No milk? Why is there no milk? We always drink milk at lunch, don’t we? And Mrs. Donner always has milk, doesn’t she? Why is there no milk?” “You know we can’t afford it.” “I don’t suppose we can, but can’t I have a little luxury occasionally, with my bad health?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know, and what’s more, you don’t care, you don’t mind that you make your poor old Father uncomfortable. Where would you have been without me?... Don’t smile, shut that smile or I’ll knock it inside out.” He is streaming with sweat, it falls in blobs on to the table. She just didn’t care, didn’t care. He’d make her care soon enough. But what was it all for? “Any gin left for me?” “Don’t taunt me, don’t taunt me, don’t taunt me ... don’t ...” and his voice rises, and his face crinkles into funny lines. She was taunting him, taunting him. Just when he felt so ill, too. He did feel ill. And these rows were so thin. Ill. He gets up and goes to the door of his room, dragging his feet. “Where are you going? More gin?” “Yes, more gin. Why shouldn’t I? Just one more.” “But aren’t you going to finish your egg?--and then there’s the nice kipper and tomato sauce.” “I tell you I can’t eat, I’m ill,” and he pulls to the door of his room.