"No, it's all right. I'll go. But you ought to tell her about it."
"I will—I'm always telling her."
"The woman's no more sense than a hen. No—don't you go, Sheila—I won't have you carrying coal."
"Nonsense," said his wife, rather acidly. "What a hypocrite you are, George. It's only because there's somebody here that you're so chivalrous all at once."
"Here, let me," said Wimsey, desperately, "I like fetching coal. Always loved coal as a kid. Anything grubby or noisy. Where is it? Lead me to it!"
Mrs. Fentiman released the scuttle, for which George and Wimsey politely struggled. In the end they all went out together to the inconvenient bin in the back-yard, Wimsey quarrying the coal, George receiving it in the scuttle and the lady lighting them with a long candle, insecurely fixed in an enamel candle-stick several sizes too large.
"And tell Mrs. Crickett," said George, irritably sticking to his grievance, "that she must fill that scuttle up properly every day."
"I'll try. But she hates being spoken to. I'm always afraid she'll give warning."
"Well, there are other charwomen, I suppose?"
"Mrs. Crickett is very honest."