Lizzie was in the hall when John let himself into the house that night.
"Hilloa," he said, "not gone to bed yet?"
"I never 'ave time to go to bed," she said. "'Ow can I get any sleep
when I 'ave to look after men! You an' Mr. 'Inde!" She came nearer to
him. "You'll get a bit of a surprise when you go upstairs," she said
very knowingly.
"Me!"
She nodded her head and giggled.
"What sort of a surprise?" he demanded.
"You'll see when you get upstairs. It's been, waitin' for you 'ere
since seven o'clock!..."
"Seven o'clock! What is it? A parcel?"
Lizzie could not control her laughter when he said "parcel." "Ow!" she
giggled. "Ow, dear, ow, dear! A parcel! Ow, yes, it's a parcel all
right! You'll see when you get up!..."
He began to mount the stairs. "You're an awful fool, Lizzie," he said
crossly, leaning over the banisters.
"Losin' your temper, eih?" she replied, bolting the street door.
He hurried up to the sitting-room and as he climbed the flight of
stairs that led directly to it, Hinde called out to him, "Is that you,
Mac?"
"Yes," he answered.
Hinde came to the door and opened it fully. "There's someone here to
see you," he said.
"To see me! At this hour?"
He entered the room as he spoke. His mother was sitting in front of the
fire.
"Mother!" he exclaimed, remembering just in time not to say "Ma!" which
would have sounded very childish in front of Hinde.
"This is a nice hour of the night to be coming home," she said, trying
to speak severely, but she could not maintain the severity in her
voice, for his arms were about her and she was hugging him.
"You never told me you were coming," he said. "What brought you over?"
"I've come to see this girl you've got hold of," she answered.
V
"But why didn't you tell me you were coming?" he asked. "I'd have met
you at the station!"
She ignored his question. "This is a terrible town," she said. "Mr.
Hinde says there's near twice as many people in this place as there is
in the whole of Ireland. How in the earthly world do they manage to get
about their business?"
"Oh, quite easily," he said nonchalantly, and as he spoke he realised
that he had come to be a Londoner.
"When I got out at the station," Mrs. MacDermott continued, "I called a
porter and said to him, 'Just put that bag on your shoulder and carry
it for me!' 'Where to, ma'am?' says he, and then I gave him your
address. I thought the man 'ud drop down dead. 'Is it far?' says I.
'Far!' says he. 'It's miles!' By all I can make out, John, you live as
far from the station as Millreagh is from Ballyards. I had to come here
in one of them things that runs without horses ... what do you call
them?"
"Taxi-cabs!"
"That's the name. It's a demented mad place this. Such traffic! Worse
nor Belfast on the fair-day!"
"It's like that every day, Mrs. MacDermott!" Hinde interjected.
"What bothers me," she went on, "is how ever you get to know your
neighbours!"
"We don't get to know them," Hinde replied. "I've lived in this house
for several years, but I don't know the names of the people on either
side of it!"
"My God," said Mrs. MacDermott, "what sort of people are you at all!
Are you all fell out with each other?"
"No. We're just not interested!"
"I wouldn't live in this place for the wide world," she exclaimed. "And
you," she continued turning to her son, "could come here where you know
nobody from a place where you knew everybody. The world's queer! What
was that water I passed on the way out?..."
"Water!"
"Aye. We went over it on a bridge!"
"Oh, the river!"
"What river!" she said.
"Why, the Thames, of course!"
"Is that what you call it?"
Hinde smiled at John. "So you've learned to call it the river, have
you? Mrs. Hinde, in this town we always talk as if there were only one
river in the world. A Londoner always says he's going up the river or
down the river or on the river. He always speaks of it as the river. He
never speaks of it as the Thames. In Belfast, you speak of the
Lagan ... never of the river. The same in Dublin. They speak of the
Liffey ... never of the river. John's become a Londoner. He knows the
proper way to speak of the Thames!"
"London seems to be full of very conceited and unneighbourly people,"
Mrs. MacDermott said.
John demanded information of his mother. How were Uncle William and Mr.
Cairnduff and the minister and Willie Logan?...
"His wife's got a child," Mrs. MacDermott replied severely.
"A boy or a girl?"
"A boy, and the spit of his father, God help him. Thon lad Logan'll
come to no good. Aggie's courting hard. Some fellow from Belfast that
travels in drapery. She told me to remember her to you!"
"Thank you, mother!"
Hinde rose to leave them. "You'll have a lot to say to each other, and
I'm tired," he explained, as he went off to bed.
"I like that man," said Mrs. MacDermott when he had gone. "And now tell
me about this girl you've got. Are you in earnest?"
"Yes, ma!" John answered, using the word "ma," now that he was alone
with his mother.
"Will she have you?"
"I hope so. She hasn't said definitely yet, but I think she will!"
"Who is she? Moore you said her name was. That's an Irish name!"
"But she's not Irish. She's English. Her father was a clergyman, but
he's dead. So is her mother. She has hardly any friends!"
"Does she keep herself?"
"Yes, ma. She works in a motor-place ... in the office, typing letters.
She's an awful nice girl, ma! I'm just doting on her, so I am!"
"Do you like her better nor that Belfast girl that married the
peeler?..."
"Och, that one," John laughed. "I never think of her now ... never for
a minute. Eleanor's the one I think about!"
"Are you sure of yourself?..."
"As sure as God's in heaven, ma!"
"Oh, yes, we know all about that, but are you sure you're sure? You
were queerly set on that Belfast girl, you know!"
He pledged himself as convincingly as he could to Eleanor, and told his
mother that he could never be happy without her.
"And how do you propose to keep her?" she said, when he had finished.
"Work for her, of course!"
"How much have you earned since you came here?"
"Nothing!"
"And you've no work fornent you?"
"No, not at the minute. I had a job, but I lost it!"