“In Grafton Street our ways parted. My ‘cousin’ lifted his eyebrows and disappeared.”
“Are you still hungry?” his wife asked, as soon as 47 had done speaking. “I’ll cook you something presently.”
“That’ll do me,” he answered, nodding his head. “This early curfew is the devil. You people haven’t got too much time.”
“There’s an hour,” I retorted, looking at my watch. “It wasn’t much of a pilgrimage here. You’re pretty snug. Up in the roof isn’t as bad as it sounds.”
“No place like a top story,” 47 said. “No one has any right on your stairs then. And there’s usually a skylight; and a man can put up a good show through the skylight. The skylight here is pretty handy. Come and look.”
“You’re not taking him on the roof?” his wife remonstrated.
“He can put on a coat. We won’t be a minute.”
“He’ll freeze.”
“Not me,” I said, getting up.
“Stick on something,” 47 suggested, getting up too. “It isn’t a bad night.”