"Here, easy on, old thing!" said Cissie Boye, seeing Mrs. Stiffson's rising temper, and entirely regaining her own good humour.
"I repeat," said Mrs. Stiffson, "what is my husband doing in your company?"
"Ask him what he's doing in my flat," countered Cissie Boye triumphantly.
"Look 'ere, mum," broke in Bindle in a soothing voice, "it's no use a-playin' 'Amlet in a rage. You jest sit down and talk it over friendly like, an' p'raps I can get a drop of Royal Richard from old Sedgy. It's sort of been a shock to you, mum, I can see. Well, things do look bad; anyhow, Royal Richard'll bring you round in two ticks."
Mrs. Stiffson turned upon Bindle a look that was meant to annihilate.
Bindle glanced across at Mr. Stiffson, who was mechanically rubbing the middle of his person with a napkin, his eyes still fixed upon his wife.
"Because your 'usband gets into the wrong duds," continued Bindle, "ain't no reason why you should get into an 'owling temper, is it?"
There was a knock at the door and, without waiting for a reply, Mrs. Sedge entered, wearing a canvas apron and a crape bonnet on one side and emitting an almost overpowering aroma of Royal Richard. In her hands she carried a large bowl of porridge. Marching across to the table, she dumped it down in front of Mr. Stiffson.
"Ain't that jest like a man, forgettin' 'alf o' wot 'e ought to remember!" she remarked and, without waiting for a reply, she stumped out of the room, banging the door behind her.
Bindle sniffed the air like a hound.