At that moment Mr. Stiffson put his head out of his door. "Porter!" he stammered, "Oscar has not had his breakfast; it's on the kitchen mantelpiece." He shut the door hurriedly.
"Oscar's got to wait," muttered Bindle as he hurried downstairs.
Ten minutes later he had the gas-stove lighted in the sitting-room, and coffee, eggs and bacon, bread and butter, strawberry jam and marmalade ready on the table.
Miss Boye emerged from her room, a vision of loveliness in a pale-blue teagown, open at the throat, with a flurry of white lace cascading down the front. There was a good deal of Cissie Boye visible in spite of the lace. She still wore her matinée cap with the blue ribbons, and Bindle frankly envied Mr. Stiffson.
"Now, sir," he cried, banging at the laggard's door, "the coffee and the lady's waitin', an' I want to feed Oscar."
Mr. Stiffson came out timidly. He evidently realised the importance of the occasion. He wore a white satin tie reposing beneath a low collar of nonconformity, a black frock-coat with a waistcoat that had been bought at a moment of indecision as to whether it should be a morning or evening affair, light trousers, and spats.
"My, ain't we dressy!" cried Bindle, looking appreciatively at Mr. Stiffson's trousers. "You got 'er beaten with them bags, sir, or my name ain't Joe Bindle."
Mr. Stiffson coughed nervously behind his hand.
"Now," continued Bindle, "you got a good hour, then we must see wot's to be done. I'll keep the Ole Bird away."
"The Old Bird?" questioned Mr. Stiffson in a thin voice as he opened the door; "but Oscar is only——"