"'Ullo, caught you," said Bindle jocosely.
"Bindle!" There was horror and anger in Mrs. Bindle's voice. Mr. MacFie merely looked uncomfortable. He rose hastily.
"I must be gaeing, Mrs. Beendle," he said; then turning to Bindle remarked, "I joost cam to enquire if Mrs. Beendle was coming to chapel the nicht."
"Don't you fret about that, sir," said Bindle genially. "She wouldn't miss a chance to pray."
"And—and may we expect you, Mr. Beendle?" enquired Mr. MacFie by way of making conversation and preventing an embarrassing silence.
"I ain't much on religion, sir," replied Bindle hastily. "Mrs. B.'s the one for that. Lemonade and religion are things, sir, wot I can be trusted with. I don't touch neither." Then, as Mr. MacFie moved towards the door, he added, "Must you go, sir? You won't stay an' 'ave a bit o' supper?"
"Na, na!" replied Mr. MacFie hastily, "I hae the Lord's work to do, Mr. Beendle, the Lord's work to do," he repeated as he shook hands with Mrs. Bindle and then with Bindle. "The Lord's work to do," he repeated for a third time as, followed by Mrs. Bindle, he left the room.
"Funny thing that the Lord's work should make 'im look like that," remarked Bindle meditatively, as he drew a tin of salmon from his pocket.
When Mrs. Bindle returned to the kitchen it was obvious that she was seriously displeased. The bangs that punctuated the process of "dishing-up" were good fortissimo bangs.
Bindle continued to read his paper imperturbably. In his nostrils was the scent of a favourite stew. He lifted his head like a hound, appreciatively sniffing the air, a look of contentment overspreading his features.