"And well you may say it, 'm," Elsie replied compassionately. "He's always trying to get straight, 'specially lately, 'm. We did get one room straight upstairs, but it meant letting all the others go. Between you and me, he'll never get straight. But he has hopes, and it's no use saying anything to him."
"I suppose you can do this room, too, on his buying mornings," said Mrs. Arb, peeping into Mr. Earlforward's private back-room from which the shop and the shop-door could be kept under observation.
"Oh, 'm! He wouldn't let me. He won't have anything touched in that room."
"Then who does it?"
"He does it himself, 'm—when it is done."
"Does he!" murmured Mrs. Arb in a peculiar tone.
The bookshelves went up to the ceiling on every side. The floor was thickly strewn with books, the table also. Chairs also. The blind lay crumpled on the book-covered window-sill. The window was obscured by dirt. The ceiling was a blackish-grey. A heavy deposit of black dust covered all things. The dreadful den expressed intolerably to Mrs. Arb the pathos of the existence of a man who is determined to look after himself. It convicted a whole sex of being feckless, foolish, helpless, infantile, absurd. Mrs. Arb and Elsie exchanged glances. Elsie blushed.
"Yes. I'm that ashamed of it, 'm!" said Elsie. "But you know what they are!"
Mrs. Arb gave two short nods. She moved her hand as if to plumb the layer of dust with one feminine finger, but refrained; she dared not.
"And do you do his cooking, too?" she asked.