“There ain't anything to be frightened about,” Stephen said slowly.
“No, I know. But Stephen, suppose I don't get work, after all. I've been so confident all this time, but I mightn't be able to do the job a bit.... I suppose this place is getting on my nerves but—I could get awfully frightened if I let myself.”
“Oh, you'll be all right. Of course you'll be getting something—”
“Yes, but I hate spending your money like this. Do you know, Stephen, I'd almost rather you were out of work too. That sounds a rotten thing to say but I hate being given it all like this, especially when you haven't got much of your own either—”
“Between friends,” said Stephen slowly, swinging his leg backwards and forwards and making the bed creak under his weight, “there aren't any giving or taking—it's just common.”
“Oh, yes, I know,” said Peter hurriedly, frightened lest he should have hurt his feelings, “of course it's all right between you and me. But all the same I'm rather eager to be earning part of it.”
They were silent for a time. Bucket Lane too seemed silent and through their little window, between the black roofs and chimneys, a cluster of stars twinkled as though they had found their way, by accident, into a very dirty neighbourhood and were trying to get out of it again.
Peter was busy fishing for his thoughts; at last he caught one and held it out to Stephen's innocent gaze.
“It isn't,” he said, “like anything so much as catching a disease from an infectious neighbourhood. I think if I lived here with five thousand a year I should still be frightened. It's in the air.”
“Being frightened,” said Stephen rather hurriedly and speaking with a kind of shame, as though he had done something to which he would rather not own up, “is a kind of 'abit. Very soon, Peter, you'll know what it's like and take it as it comes.”