George, having had breakfast in bed, opened his door for the second time that morning, and duly found on the mat the can of hot water (covered with a bit of old blanket) and the can of cold water which comprised the material for his bath.  There was no sound in the house.  The new spouse might be upstairs or she might be downstairs—­he could not tell; but the cans proved that she was immanent and regardful; indeed, she never forgot anything.  And George’s second state at No. 8 was physically even better than his first.  In the transition through autumn from summer to winter—­a transition which, according to the experience of tens of thousands of London lodgers, is capable of turning comparative comfort into absolute discomfort—­Mrs. Haim had behaved with benevolence and ingenuity.  For example, the bedroom fire, laid overnight, was now burning up well from the mere touch of the lodger’s own match.  Such things are apt to count, and they counted with George.

As for Mr. Haim, George knew that he was still in bed, because, since his marriage, Mr. Haim had made a practice of staying in bed on Sunday mornings.  The scheme was his wife’s; she regarded it as his duty to himself to exercise this grand male privilege of staying in bed; to do so gave him majesty, magnificence, and was a sign of authority.  A copy of The Referee, fresh as fruit new-dropped from the bough, lay in the hall at the front door.  Mr. Haim had read The Referee since The Referee was.  He began his perusal with the feature known as “Mustard and Cress,” which not only amused him greatly, but convinced him that his own ideas on affairs were really very sagacious.  His chief and most serious admiration, however was kept for “Our Hand-Book.”  “It’s my Bible,” he had once remarked, “and I’m not ashamed to say it.  And there are scores and scores of men who’d say the same.”  Church bells could not be heard at No. 8. The Referee lying in the hall was the gracious sign of Sabbath morning.  Presently Mrs. Haim would carry it upstairs, respectfully.  For her it was simply and unanalysably The Referee.  She did not dream of looking into it.  Mr. Haim did not expect her to look into it.  Her mission was to solace and to charm, his alone to supply the intellectual basis upon which their existence reposed.  George’s nose caught the ascending beautiful odour of bacon; he picked up his cans and disappeared.

When he was dressed, he brought forward the grindstone to the fire, and conscientiously put his nose to it, without even lighting a cigarette.  It had been agreed between himself and Marguerite that there should be no more cigarettes until after lunch.  It had also been agreed that he should put his nose to the grindstone that Sunday morning, and that she should do the same away in Manresa Road.  George’s grindstone happened to be Miers and Crosskey’s The Soil in Relation to Health.  He was preparing for his Final Examination.  In addition