He nodded. He was eating bread-and-butter.
"You had any sleep at all?" he mumbled, munching.
"Oh yes! A little," she answered cheerfully, leaving the room.
He poured out more tea, and then sat down in the sole easy-chair for a minute's reflection before going upstairs and thence to the works.
Not until he woke up did he realise that there had been any danger of his going to sleep. The earthenware clock on the mantelpiece (a birthday gift from Clara and Albert) showed five minutes past eleven. Putting no reliance on the cheap, horrible clock, he looked at his watch, which had stopped for lack of winding up. The fire was very low. His chief thought was: "It can't possibly be eleven o'clock, because I haven't been down to the works, and I haven't sent word I'm not coming either!" He got up hurriedly and had reached the door when a sound of a voice on the stairs held him still like an enchantment. It seemed to be the voice, eloquent, and indeed somewhat Church-of-England, of the Rev. Christian Flowerdew, the new superintendent of the Bursley Wesleyan Methodist Circuit. The voice said: "I do hope so!" and then offered a resounding remark about the weather being the kind of weather that, bad as it was, people must expect in view of the time of year. Maggie's voice concurred.
As soon as the front-door closed, Edwin peeped cautiously out of the dining-room.
"Who was that?" he murmured.
"Mr. Flowerdew. She wanted him. Albert sent for him early this morning."
Maggie came into the room and shut the door.
"I've been to sleep," said Edwin.