He was getting up as he said this. He waited a moment, said, “We’ll run across each other in a day or two. Good luck with your flat.”
He nodded, and was gone.
CHAPTER IV
FINDING A ROOF
Next morning Himself and I breakfasted early and went flat hunting. We went light-heartedly, not knowing what was before us. I had started with some idea of comfort and cleanliness: I had made up my mind that my life should be comfortable as well as interesting. But that dream was soon dispelled. The flats we saw had never seen brooms since the days of Cuchulan, a man the Irish are very fond of. We were eyed up and down by frowsy maids and dilapidated landladies.
“God knows where we’ll end if we get into any of these!” Himself exclaimed, in the middle of the hunt.
“Now, look here, my poor husband, we must get a flat. It’s the basements that have put us off. Don’t let’s look at basements, let’s just see the possibility of soap and water.”
“That’s a good idea; but what shall we let ourselves in for?”
“We’ve got to die somehow some day.”
We walked along a street in the neighbourhood of Stephen’s Green. Somewhere about the middle, on the right-hand side, a cab was drawn up, and luggage was being brought out by a bibulous-looking cabman.