“I’ve brought the tea, Mr. Critchlow,” said Sophia.

And Mr. Critchlow carefully accepted the tray.

“Is that my little Sophia?” asked a faint voice from the depths of the bedroom.

“Yes, father,” said Sophia.

But she did not attempt to enter the room.  Mr. Critchlow put the tray on a white-clad chest of drawers near the door, and then he shut the door, with no ceremony.  Mr. Critchlow was John Baines’s oldest and closest friend, though decidedly younger than the draper.  He frequently “popped in” to have a word with the invalid; but Thursday afternoon was his special afternoon, consecrated by him to the service of the sick.  From two o’clock precisely till eight o’clock precisely he took charge of John Baines, reigning autocratically over the bedroom.  It was known that he would not tolerate invasions, nor even ambassadorial visits.  No!  He gave up his weekly holiday to this business of friendship, and he must be allowed to conduct the business in his own way.  Mrs. Baines herself avoided disturbing Mr. Critchlow’s ministrations on her husband.  She was glad to do so; for Mr. Baines was never to be left alone under any circumstances, and the convenience of being able to rely upon the presence of a staid member of the Pharmaceutical Society for six hours of a given day every week outweighed the slight affront to her prerogatives as wife and house-mistress.  Mr. Critchlow was an extremely peculiar man, but when he was in the bedroom she could leave the house with an easy mind.  Moreover, John Baines enjoyed these Thursday afternoons.  For him, there was ‘none like Charles Critchlow.’  The two old friends experienced a sort of grim, desiccated happiness, cooped up together in the bedroom, secure from women and fools generally.  How they spent the time did not seem to be certainly known, but the impression was that politics occupied them.  Undoubtedly Mr. Critchlow was an extremely peculiar man.  He was a man of habits.  He must always have the same things for his tea.  Black-currant jam, for instance. (He called it “preserve.”) The idea of offering Mr. Critchlow a tea which did not comprise black-currant jam was inconceivable by the intelligence of St. Luke’s Square.  Thus for years past, in the fruit-preserving season, when all the house and all the shop smelt richly of fruit boiling in sugar, Mrs. Baines had filled an extra number of jars with black-currant jam, ‘because Mr. Critchlow wouldn’t touch any other sort.’

So Sophia, faced with the shut door of the bedroom, went down to the parlour by the shorter route.  She knew that on going up again, after tea, she would find the devastated tray on the doormat.