“Oh, dear me! I’m sorry to hear that,” said the literary gentleman in a shocked tone. He was in the middle of his breakfast. He wore a very shabby dressing-gown and carried a crumpled newspaper in one hand. But he felt awkward. He could hardly go back to the warm sitting-room without saying something—something more. Then because these people set such store by funerals he said kindly, “I hope the funeral went off all right.” “Beg parding, sir?” said old Ma Parker huskily. Poor old bird! She did look dashed. “I hope the funeral was a—a—success,” said he. Ma Parker gave no answer. She bent her head and hobbled off to the kitchen, clasping the old fish bag that held her cleaning things and an apron and a pair of felt shoes. The literary gentleman raised his eyebrows and went back to his breakfast. “Overcome, I suppose,” he said aloud, helping himself to the marmalade. Ma Parker drew the two jetty spears out of her toque and hung it behind the door. She unhooked her worn jacket and hung that up too. Then she tied her apron and sat down to take off her boots. To take off her boots or to put them on was an agony to her, but it had been an agony for years. In fact, she was so accustomed to the pain that her face was drawn and screwed up ready for the twinge before she’d so much as untied the laces. That over, she sat back with a sigh and softly rubbed her knees.... “Gran! Gran!” Her little grandson stood on her lap in his button boots. He’d just come in from playing in the street. “Look what a state you’ve made your gran’s skirt into—you wicked boy!” But he put his arms round her neck and rubbed his cheek against hers. “Gran, gi’ us a penny!” he coaxed. “Be off with you; Gran ain’t got no pennies.” “Yes, you ’ave.” “No, I ain’t.” “Yes, you ’ave. Gi’ us one!” Already she was feeling for the old, squashed, black leather purse. “Well, what’ll you give your gran?” He gave a shy little laugh and pressed closer. She felt his eyelid quivering against her cheek. “I ain’t got nothing,” he murmured.... The old woman sprang up, seized the iron kettle off the gas stove and took it over to the sink. The noise of the water drumming in the kettle deadened her pain, it seemed. She filled the pail, too, and the washing-up bowl. It would take a whole book to describe the state of that kitchen. During the week the literary gentleman “did” for himself. That is to say, he emptied the tea leaves now and again into a jam jar set aside for that purpose, and if he ran out of clean forks he wiped over one or two on the roller towel. Otherwise, as he explained to his friends, his “system” was quite simple, and he couldn’t understand why people made all this fuss about housekeeping. “You simply dirty everything you’ve got, get a hag in once a week to clean up, and the thing’s done.”