Major Eele walked slowly, though he knew that the slower he walked the sooner he would have to take a bus. In the distance he could hear the noise of traffic, coming from an area that was more used by motor-cars and lorries and buses. It was quiet where he walked; no sound came from the open windows of houses: children were having their afternoon sleep, mothers were resting. In one house only in Jubilee Road a lover came to visit his housewife mistress. He let himself into the house without a sound, and when the two met they spoke in whispers, for somehow it was that kind of afternoon, an afternoon that was full of silence, with only Major Eele abroad.

In his Notes on Residents Mr Bird had written:

Major Eele (69) came to me seven years ago. He had had the misfortune to embark upon a marriage with a woman of forty-odd years, a marriage of which he has repeated to me various yarns. Major Eele is greatly given to chat, but like most people here he is not always accurate. After all, I am not always accurate myself: inaccuracy is a symptom of our condition, I suppose, and I do no begrudge the old Major his little embroideries. Major Eele has often dropped into conversation with me in the afternoon and referred to me as a man of the world. By this I deduce that he is seeking information. I have, in fact, engaged the Major upon a practical course of education in the hope that in the future he will leave me in peace, as I particularly dislike people coming to my door at all hours, though naturally I make a point of saying I do not mind. I would not like to have to ask the Major to move on.