‘Open that door,’ he said, standing back.

‘I am going to,’ said Morris, and added mentally, ’He looks like murder!’

The brothers passed into the hall, the door closed behind them; and suddenly John seized Morris by the shoulders and shook him as a terrier shakes a rat.  ‘You mangy little cad,’ he said, ’I’d serve you right to smash your skull!’ And shook him again, so that his teeth rattled and his head smote upon the wall.

‘Don’t be violent, Johnny,’ said Morris.  ‘It can’t do any good now.’

‘Shut your mouth,’ said John, ‘your time’s come to listen.’

He strode into the dining-room, fell into the easy-chair, and taking off one of his burst walking-shoes, nursed for a while his foot like one in agony.  ‘I’m lame for life,’ he said.  ‘What is there for dinner?’

‘Nothing, Johnny,’ said Morris.

‘Nothing?  What do you mean by that?’ enquired the Great Vance.  ’Don’t set up your chat to me!’

‘I mean simply nothing,’ said his brother.  ’I have nothing to eat, and nothing to buy it with.  I’ve only had a cup of tea and a sandwich all this day myself.’

‘Only a sandwich?’ sneered Vance.  ’I suppose you’re going to complain next.  But you had better take care:  I’ve had all I mean to take; and I can tell you what it is, I mean to dine and to dine well.  Take your signets and sell them.’

‘I can’t today,’ objected Morris; ‘it’s Sunday.’

‘I tell you I’m going to dine!’ cried the younger brother.

‘But if it’s not possible, Johnny?’ pleaded the other.

‘You nincompoop!’ cried Vance.  ’Ain’t we householders?  Don’t they know us at that hotel where Uncle Parker used to come.  Be off with you; and if you ain’t back in half an hour, and if the dinner ain’t good, first I’ll lick you till you don’t want to breathe, and then I’ll go straight to the police and blow the gaff.  Do you understand that, Morris Finsbury?  Because if you do, you had better jump.’

The idea smiled even upon the wretched Morris, who was sick with famine.  He sped upon his errand, and returned to find John still nursing his foot in the armchair.

‘What would you like to drink, Johnny?’ he enquired soothingly.

‘Fizz,’ said John.  ’Some of the poppy stuff from the end bin; a bottle of the old port that Michael liked, to follow; and see and don’t shake the port.  And look here, light the fire—­and the gas, and draw down the blinds; it’s cold and it’s getting dark.  And then you can lay the cloth.  And, I say—­here, you! bring me down some clothes.’

The room looked comparatively habitable by the time the dinner came; and the dinner itself was good:  strong gravy soup, fillets of sole, mutton chops and tomato sauce, roast beef done rare with roast potatoes, cabinet pudding, a piece of Chester cheese, and some early celery:  a meal uncompromisingly British, but supporting.

‘Thank God!’ said John, his nostrils sniffing wide, surprised by joy into the unwonted formality of grace.  ’Now I’m going to take this chair with my back to the fire—­there’s been a strong frost these two last nights, and I can’t get it out of my bones; the celery will be just the ticket—­I’m going to sit here, and you are going to stand there, Morris Finsbury, and play butler.’