With the stealth of a burglar he turned the handle, pushed open the door some eighteen inches and put his head round the corner.
Mrs. Bindle was lying in bed on her back, her face void of all expression, whilst with each indrawn breath there was a hard, metallic sound.
Bindle wriggled the rest of his body round the door-post, closing the door behind him. With ostentatious care, still tiptoeing, he crossed the room and stood by the bedside.
"Ain't you feelin' well, Lizzie?" he asked in a hoarse whisper, sufficient in itself to remind an invalid of death.
"Did you put water in the saucepans?" She asked the question without turning her head, and with the air of one who has something on her mind. The harsh rasp of her voice alarmed Bindle.
"I ain't 'ad supper yet," he said. "Is there anythink you'd like?" he enquired solicitously, still in the same depressing whisper.
"No; just leave me alone," she murmured. "Don't forget the water in the saucepans," she added a moment later.
For some seconds Bindle stood irresolute. He was convinced that something ought to be done; but just what he did not know.
"Wouldn't you like a bit o' fried fish, or—or a pork chop?" he named at a venture two of his favourite supper dishes. The fish he could buy ready fried, the chop he felt equal to cooking himself.
"Leave me alone." She turned her head aside with a feeble shudder.