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 it. He might, too, have observed that Stephen, now and again, shot an anxious, troubled glance at him an though he were uneasy about something.

But Peter, since six o'clock that evening, at which moment he had written the concluding sentence of “The Sea Road,” had been in deep and troubled thought concerning himself, and broke from that introspection, on Stephen's arrival, in a state of unhappy morbidity and entire self-absorption.

Their supper was beer, sardines and cheese.

“It's been pretty awful here this evening,” Peter said. “Old Trubbit on the floor below's been beating his wife and she's been screaming like anything. I couldn't stand it, after a bit, and went down to see what I could do. The family was mopping her head with water and he was sitting on a chair, crying. Drunk again, of course, but he was turned off his job apparently this afternoon. They're closing down.”

“'Ard luck,” said Stephen, looking at the floor.

“Yes—it hasn't been altogether cheerful—and his getting the chuck like that set me thinking. It's awfully lucky you've got your job all right and of course now I've written these things and have got ‘something to show,’ I'll be all right.” Peter paused for a moment a little uncertainly. “But it does, you know, make one a bit frightened, this place, seeing the way people get suddenly bowled over. There were the Gambits—a fortnight ago he was in work and they were as fit as anything they haven't had any food now for three days.”

“There ain't anything to be frightened about,” Stephen said slowly.

“No, I know. But Stephen, suppose I don't get work, after all. I've been so confident all this time, but I mightn't be able to do the job a bit I suppose this place is getting on my nerves but—I could get awfully frightened if I let myself.”

“Oh, you'll be all right. Of course you'll be getting something—”

“Yes, but I hate spending your money like this. Do you know, Stephen, I'd almost rather you were out of work too. That sounds a rotten thing to say but I hate being given it