"She's pretty, then," she said. "Ain't you men jest all alike!" She proceeded to shake her head in hopeless despair.
Bindle stood watching her as she descended to the Harts' kitchen.
"She's got an 'ead-piece on 'er, 'as ole Sedgy," he muttered. "Fancy 'er a-tumblin' to it like that, an' 'er still 'alf full o' Royal Richard."
Having prepared and eaten his own breakfast, Bindle sat down and waited. At five minutes past nine he rose.
"It's time Oscar an' Ole Whiskers was up an' doin'," he murmured as he stood in front of the dingy looking-glass over the fireplace. "Joe Bindle, there's a-goin' to be rare doin's in Number Six to-day, and it may mean that you'll lose your job, you ole reprobate."
At the head of the stairs of the second floor Bindle stopped as if he had been shot.
"'Old me, 'Orace!" he muttered. "If it ain't 'er!"
Running towards him was Miss Boye in a white silk wrapper, a white lace matinée cap, her stockingless feet thrust into dainty slippers.
Bindle eyed her appreciatively.
"Oh, Mr. Porter!" she cried breathlessly, "there's a man in my bath."