On wet days he wore a mackintosh.  This, as he did not yet possess a great-coat, he wore also, but with less glory, on cold days.  He had hoped there might be rain on Christmas morning.  But there was no rain.  “Like my luck,” he said as he came out of his lodgings and turned his steps to that corner of Jubilee Avenue from which the Hanbridge-Bursley trams start every half-hour.

Since Jos Wrackgarth had introduced him to his sister at the Hanbridge Oddfellows’ Biennial Hop, when he danced two quadrilles with her, he had seen her but once.  He had nodded to her, Five Towns fashion, and she had nodded back at him, but with a look that seemed to say “You needn’t nod next time you see me.  I can get along well enough without your nods.”  A frightening girl!  And yet her brother had since told him she seemed “a bit gone, like” on him.  Impossible!  He, Albert Grapp, make an impression on the brilliant Miss Wrackgarth!  Yet she had sent him a verbal invite to spend Christmas in her own home.  And the time had come.  He was on his way.  Incredible that he should arrive!  The tram must surely overturn, or be struck by lightning.  And yet no!  He arrived safely.

The small servant who opened the door gave him another verbal message from Miss Wrackgarth.  It was that he must wipe his feet “well” on the mat.  In obeying this order he experienced a thrill of satisfaction he could not account for.  He must have stood shuffling his boots vigorously for a full minute.  This, he told himself, was life.  He, Albert Grapp, was alive.  And the world was full of other men, all alive; and yet, because they were not doing Miss Wrackgarth’s bidding, none of them really lived.  He was filled with a vague melancholy.  But his melancholy pleased him.

In the parlour he found Jos awaiting him.  The table was laid for three.

“So you’re here, are you?” said the host, using the Five Towns formula.  “Emily’s in the kitchen,” he added.  “Happen she’ll be here directly.”

“I hope she’s tol-lol-ish?” asked Albert.

“She is,” said Jos.  “But don’t you go saying that to her.  She doesn’t care about society airs and graces.  You’ll make no headway if you aren’t blunt.”

“Oh, right you are,” said Albert, with the air of a man who knew his way about.

A moment later Emily joined them, still wearing her kitchen apron.  “So you’re here, are you?” she said, but did not shake hands.  The servant had followed her in with the tray, and the next few seconds were occupied in the disposal of the beef and trimmings.

The meal began, Emily carving.  The main thought of a man less infatuated than Albert Grapp would have been “This girl can’t cook.  And she’ll never learn to.”  The beef, instead of being red and brown, was pink and white.  Uneatable beef!  And yet he relished it more than anything he had ever tasted.  This beef was her own handiwork.  Thus it was because she had made it so....  He warily refrained from complimenting her, but the idea of a second helping obsessed him.