They shook hands again, and Grail took his departure.  Egremont still stood for a few minutes before the fire; then he extinguished the gas, locked the door behind him, and went forth into the street singing to himself.

Gilbert turned into Paradise Street, which was close at hand.  He had decided to call and ask for Ackroyd on his way home.  The latter had not been at work that day, and was perhaps ailing; for some time he had seemed out of sorts.  Intercourse between them was not as constant as formerly.  Grail explained this as due to Ackroyd’s disturbed mood, another result of which was seen in his ceasing to attend the lecture; yet in Gilbert also there was something which tended to weaken the intimacy.  He knew well enough what this was, and strove against it, but not with great success.

Ackroyd lived with his married sister, who let half her house to lodgers.  When Gilbert knocked at the door, it was she who opened.  Mrs. Poole was a buxom young woman with a complexion which suggested continual activity within range of the kitchen fire; her sleeves were always rolled up to her elbow, and at whatever moment surprised she wore an apron which seemed just washed and ironed.  She knew not weariness, nor discomfort, nor discontent, and her flow of words suggested a safety valve letting off superfluous energy.

‘That Mr. Grail?’ she said, peering out into the darkness.  ’You’ve come to look after that great good-for-nothing of a brother of mine, I’ll be bound!  Come downstairs, and I’ll tell him you’re here.  You may well wonder what’s become of him.  Ill!  Not he, indeed!  No more ill than I am.  It’s only his laziness.  He wants a good shaking, that’s about the truth of it, Mr. Grail.’

She led him down into the kitchen.  A low clothes-horse, covered with fresh-smelling, gently-steaming linen, stood before a great glowing fire.  A baby lay awake in a swinging cot just under the protruding leaf of the table, and a little girl of three was sitting in night-dress and shawl on a stool in a warm corner.

‘Yes, you may well stare,’ resumed Mrs. Poole, noticing Grail’s glance at the children.  ’A quarter past ten and neither one of ’em shut an eye yet, nor won’t do till their father comes home, not if it’s twelve o’clock.  You dare to laugh, Miss!’ she cried to the little one on the stool, with mock wrath.  ’The idea of having to fetch you out o’ bed just for peace and quietness.  And that young man there’—­she pointed to the cradle; ’there’s about as much sleep ill him as there is in that eight-day clock!  You rascal, you!’

Like her brother, she had the northern accent still lingering in her speech; it suited with her brisk, hearty ways.  Whilst speaking, she had partly moved the horse from the fire and placed a round-backed chair for the visitor in a position which would have answered tolerably had she meant to roast him.

‘He’s in the sulks, that’s what he is,’ she continued, returning to the subject of Luke.  ‘I suppose you know all about it, Mr. Grail?’