"Where are you ill, Lizzie?" he enquired at length.
"Go away," she moaned, and Bindle turned, tip-toed across to the door and passed out of the room. He was conscious that the situation was beyond him.
That evening he ate his food without relish. His mind was occupied with the invalid upstairs and the problem of what he should do. He was unaccustomed to illness, either in himself or in others. His instinct was to fetch a doctor; but would she like it? It was always a little difficult to anticipate Mrs. Bindle's view of any particular action, no matter how well-intentioned.
At the conclusion of the meal, he drew his pipe from his pocket and proceeded to smoke with a view to inspiration.
Suddenly he was roused by a loud pounding overhead.
"'Oly ointment, she's fallen out!" he muttered, as he made for the door and dashed up the stairs two at a time.
As he opened the door, he found Mrs. Bindle sitting up in bed, a red flannel petticoat round her shoulders, sniffing the air like a hungry hound.
"You're burning my best saucepan," she croaked.
"I ain't, Lizzie, reelly I ain't——" Then memory came to him. He had forgotten to put water in either of the saucepans.
"I can smell burning," she persisted, "you——"