THE LAST LOSS


Three days later it was Easter Day. In the evening, about half-past nine,
when Thomas lay sleeping and Peter was packing the rugs and cushions and
pictures he hadn't paid for into brown paper parcels (a tedious job),
Rodney came in. Peter hadn't seen him for some time.

"What on earth," said Rodney, lighting his pipe and sitting down, "are
you doing with all that upholstery? Has someone been sending you Easter
presents? Well, I'm glad you're getting rid of them as speedily as may
be."

Peter said ruefully, because he was tired of the business, "The stupid
things aren't paid for. So I'm packing them up to be sent back directly
the shops open again. I can't afford them, you see. Already most of my
belongings are in pawn."

"I see." Rodney wasn't specially struck by this; it was the chronic
condition of many of his friends, who were largely of the class who pawn
their clothes on Monday and redeem them on Saturday to wear for Sunday,
and pawn them again, paying, if they can afford it, a penny extra to have
the dresses hung up so that they don't crush.

"A sudden attack of honesty," Rodney commented. "Well, I'm glad, because
I don't see what you want to cumber yourself with all those cushions and
rugs for. You're quite comfortable enough without them."

Peter said, "Thomas and I wanted nice things to look at. We were tired of