"I see they're starting summer-camps." Mrs. Bindle looked up from reading the previous evening's paper. She was invariably twelve hours late with the world's news.
Bindle continued his breakfast. He was too absorbed in Mrs. Bindle's method of serving dried haddock with bubble-and-squeak to evince much interest in alien things.
"That's right," she continued after a pause, "don't you answer. Your ears are in your stomach. Pleasant companion you are. I might as well be on a desert island for all the company you are."
"If you wasn't such a damn good cook, Mrs. B., I might find time to say pretty things to you." It was only in relation to her own cooking that Bindle's conversational lapses passed without rebuke.
"There are to be camps for men, camps for women, and family camps," continued Mrs. Bindle without raising her eyes from the paper before her.
"Personally myself I says put me among the gals." The remark reached Mrs. Bindle through a mouthful of haddock and bubble-and-squeak, plus a fish-bone.
"You don't deserve to have a decent home, the way you talk."
There were times when no answer, however gentle, was capable of turning aside Mrs. Bindle's wrath. On Sunday mornings in particular she found the burden of Bindle's transgressions weigh heavily upon her.
Bindle sucked contentedly at a hollow tooth. He was feeling generously inclined towards all humanity. Haddock, bubble-and-squeak, and his own philosophy enabled him to withstand the impact of Mrs. Bindle's most vigorous offensive.
"It's years since I had a holiday," she continued complainingly.