Chapter VIII: Act I

SCENE: _A dingy parlour in a London Suburb. Two men in ill-fitting garments are sitting glumly, in comfortless chairs with shabby and rather soiled covers, on either side of a dismal mockery of a fire. The room is lit with incandescent gas, which shows a sickly yellow through a raw haze, offensively compounded of “London Particular” and the penetrating yellow fumes of cheap coal. The men are_ JOSEPH BLOGGS _(52), one of life’s many failures, and_ HENRY HOOKER _(49), another of them. Their tired white faces are resting on their hands, and they are staring into the smoking grate. At last_ HOOKER _breaks the intolerable silence_.

HOOKER (_gloomily_): The fire’s smoking.

BLOGGS: Yes. (_He pokes it. The fire smoulders angrily. They cough. There is a pause._ HOOKER _looks out of the window_.)

* * * * *

HOOKER (_darkly_): It’s raining.

BLOGGS (_with a deep sigh_): Yes.... Has the fog lifted?

HOOKER: No. It’s getting thicker.

BLOGGS (_with resignation_): Ah, well. (JEMIMA (42) _comes in, tiredly. She is the wife of_ BLOGGS, _a thin, prematurely grey-haired woman, haggard with cares. The fire welcomes her with a spiteful volley of lyddite._)

JEMIMA (_wearily_): You’re here, are you?

BLOGGS: Yes.... The fire’s smoking.

JEMIMA (_with a sigh_): I’ll make it up. (_She makes a listless attack on it with the poker. The fire goes out._) The coals are so bad. (_She painfully rekindles it._)

HOOKER: Yes.

Jemima (_addressing_ BLOGGS): That kid’s very bad again. She’s coughing something awful.

BLOGGS: Better have the doctor.

JEMIMA: Perhaps Mr. Hooker would tell him on his way home?

HOOKER: Yes.

JEMIMA: The gas company’s going to cut off the gas to-morrow, unless--Joseph, couldn’t we pay something on account?

BLOGGS: I’ll see what I can do.

HOOKER: Life’s very hard.

JEMIMA: Yes. (_She begins to lay the table with enamel cups and saucers._) You’ll stay for tea, Mr. Hooker?

HOOKER (_drearily_): Yes. I suppose so. (_They wait in silent misery for the kettle to boil._)

THE CURTAIN FALLS.