“No, ’e only ’it me on the ’ead. I got to see ’er, Sam.” “Claire?” “Ah! The pore little angel, crying ’er ruddy eyes out. The gentleman was saying all about it.” “What gentleman?” “A gentleman come to the back door and told that perisher all about how the pore little thing was howling and weeping and all, thinking ’e was me.” “Have you had a quarrel with Claire?” “We ’ad words. I got to see ’er.” “You shall. Can you walk?” “Of course I can walk. Why shouldn’t I walk?” “Come along then.” In spite of his assurance, however, Hash found his cramped limbs hard to steer. Sam had to lend an arm, and their progress was slow. “Sam,” said Hash, after a pause which had been intended primarily for massage, but which had plainly been accompanied by thought, “do you know anything about getting married?” “Only that it is an excellent thing to do.” “I mean, ’ow quick can a feller get married?” “Like a flash, I believe. At any rate, if he goes to a registrar’s.” “I’m going to a registrar’s then. I’ve ’ad enough of these what I might call misunderstandings.” “Brave words, Hash! How are the legs?” “The legs are all right. It’s her mother I’m thinking of.” “You always seem to be thinking of her mother. Are you quite sure you’ve picked the right one of the family?” Hash had halted again, and his face was that of a man whose soul was a battlefield. “Sam, ’er mother wants to come and live with us when we’re married.” “Well, why not?” “Ah, you ain’t seen her, Sam! She’s got a hooked nose and an eye like one of these animal trainers. Still----” The battle appeared to be resumed once more. “Oh, well!” said Hash. He mused for a while. “You’ve got to look at it all round, you know.” “Exactly.” “And there’s this to think of: She says she’ll buy a pub for us.” “Pubs are pubs,” agreed Sam. “I’ve always wanted to have a pub of my own.” “Then I shouldn’t hesitate.” Hash suddenly saw the poetic side of the vision. “Won’t my little Clara look a treat standing behind a bar, serving the drinks and singing out, ‘Time, gentlemen, please!’ Can’t you see her scraping the froth off the mugs?” He fell into a rapt silence, and said no more while Sam escorted him through the back door of San Rafael and led him into the kitchen. There, rightly considering that the sacred scene of re-union was not for his eyes, Sam turned away. Gently depositing the nether garments of Mr. Molloy on the table, he left them together and made his way to the drawing-room. § 3 The first thing he heard as he opened the door was Kay’s voice. “I don’t care,” she was saying. “I simply don’t believe it.”