He was getting up as he said this. He waited a moment, said, “We’ll run across each other in a day or two. Good luck with your flat.” He nodded, and was gone. CHAPTER IV FINDING A ROOF Next morning Himself and I breakfasted early and went flat hunting. We went light-heartedly, not knowing what was before us. I had started with some idea of comfort and cleanliness: I had made up my mind that my life should be comfortable as well as interesting. But that dream was soon dispelled. The flats we saw had never seen brooms since the days of Cuchulan, a man the Irish are very fond of. We were eyed up and down by frowsy maids and dilapidated landladies. “God knows where we’ll end if we get into any of these!” Himself exclaimed, in the middle of the hunt. “Now, look here, my poor husband, we must get a flat. It’s the basements that have put us off. Don’t let’s look at basements, let’s just see the possibility of soap and water.” “That’s a good idea; but what shall we let ourselves in for?” “We’ve got to die somehow some day.” We walked along a street in the neighbourhood of Stephen’s Green. Somewhere about the middle, on the right-hand side, a cab was drawn up, and luggage was being brought out by a bibulous-looking cabman. “That looks hopeful,” Himself said. “Some one is clearing out.” We mounted the steps before the door was shut. A middle-aged servant stood on the top step, directing the cabman with his last load. She had black hair, an apron, sand-shoes--they had started life white--and her sleeves were rolled up. “Are there any flats to let here?” I asked hurriedly. Before replying, she looked us up and down in the Irish way. “There are,” she said, at last. “There do be two, and some one’s just after leaving now.” “Can we see any one?” “You can. Mrs. Slaney’s upstairs.” We went inside. The hall floor was depressing. The stair rods endangered our ascent. The stair carpet had once been red. “I’ve not been able to sweep to-day,” said the servant. “The mistress was after giving the loan of the broom next door, and it hasn’t come back yet.” “Mrs. O’Grady! Mrs. O’Grady!” screamed some one below us. “When do I put the pudden in?” “Such a girl!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Grady. “She is like a headless cock! It’s half-four now,” she answered. “Use your head! That girl!” she exclaimed to me indignantly, “she doesn’t know the clock. Here you are, mum, a party to see the rooms.” Mrs. Slaney sat with her back to the door, trimming a hat. Her mouth was full of pins. There were drying bulbs spread out on newspapers over the floor. “Have you a flat to let?” I asked, as she got up from the chair and came towards us. “Rooms to let,” she corrected with a smile. “Yes, I have rooms to let.” She eyed the creases in Himself’s trousers. “You’re English? What are you doing in Ireland?” She tried to question us pleasantly. “You’re army, of course? I don’t know that I’d care to let my rooms to army people.”