clean, the floor was red tiles. The wash-copper of red bricks was very
red, the mangle with its put-up board was white-scrubbed, the American
oil-cloth on the table had a gay pattern, there was a warm fire, the
water in the boiler hissed faintly. And in front of him, beneath him
as he leaned forward shaving, a drop of water fell with strange,
incalculable rhythm from the bright brass tap into the white enamelled
bowl, which was now half full of pure, quivering water. The war was
over, and everything just the same. The acute familiarity of this
house, which he had built for his marriage twelve years ago, the
changeless pleasantness of it all seemed unthinkable. It prevented
his thinking.

When he went into the middle room to comb his hair he found the
Christmas tree sparkling, his wife was making pastry at the table,
the baby was sitting up propped in cushions.

"Father," said Millicent, approaching him with a flat blue-and-white
angel of cotton-wool, and two ends of cotton--"tie the angel at the
top."

"Tie it at the top?" he said, looking down.

"Yes. At the very top--because it's just come down from the sky."

"Ay my word!" he laughed. And he tied the angel.

Coming downstairs after changing he went into the icy cold parlour,
and took his music and a small handbag. With this he retreated again
to the back kitchen. He was still in trousers and shirt and slippers:
but now it was a clean white shirt, and his best black trousers, and