"You always was jealous of him," she remarked, rubbing a piece of soap on the face of the iron and polishing it vigorously upon a small square of well-worn carpet kept for that purpose. "'E's got on and you haven't, and there's an end of it;" and she brought down the iron fiercely upon a pillow-case.
"Wot d'you think 'e's done now?" demanded Bindle, as he went to the sink and filled a basin for his evening "rinse." Plunging his face into the water, with much puffing and blowing he began to lather it with soapy hands. He had apparently entirely forgotten his question.
"Well, what is it?" enquired Mrs. Bindle at length, too curious longer to remain quiet.
Bindle turned from the sink, soap-suds forming a rim round his face and filling his tightly-shut eyes. He groped with hands extended towards the door behind which hung the roller-towel. Having polished his face to his entire satisfaction, he walked towards the door leading into the passage.
"Well, what's he done now?" demanded Mrs. Bindle again with asperity.
"'E says Millikins ain't goin' to marry Charlie Dixon." There was anger in Bindle's voice.
"You're a nice one," commented Mrs. Bindle, "Always sneerin' at marriage, an' now you're blaming Mr. Hearty because he won't——"
"Well, I'm blowed!" Bindle wheeled round, his good-humour re-asserting itself, "I 'adn't thought o' that."
Having cleared away her ironing, Mrs. Bindle threw the white tablecloth over the table with an angry flourish.
"Now ain't that funny!" continued Bindle, as if highly amused at Mrs. Bindle's discovery. "Now ain't that funny!" he repeated.