At the sight of the anxious look on his face she stopped suddenly, and with her clenched fist began to pound her chest.

"It's my breath, Joe," she wheezed. "It don't seem to get no better. 'Ave a drop," she gasped, pointing to the Guinness bottle on the table. "There's a glass on the dresser," she added; but Bindle shook an anxious head.

"It's Lizzie," he said.

"Lizzie!" wheezed Mrs. Hearty. "What she been doin' now?"

Mrs. Hearty possessed no illusions about her sister's capacity to contrive any man's domestic happiness. Her own philosophy was, "If things must happen, let 'em," whereas she was well aware that Mrs. Bindle strove to control the wheels of destiny.

"When you're my size," she would say, "you won't want to worry about anything; it's the lean 'uns as grizzles."

"She's ill in bed," he explained, "an' I don't know wot to do. Says she won't see a doctor, an' she's sort o' fidgetty because she thinks I'm burnin' the bloomin' saucepans—an' I 'ave burned 'em, Martha," he added confidentially. "Such a stink."

Whereat Mrs. Hearty began to heave, and strange movements rippled down her manifold chins. She was laughing.

There was, however, no corresponding light of humour in Bindle's eyes, and she quickly recovered herself. "What's the matter with 'er, Joe?" she gasped.

"She won't say where it is," he replied. "I think it's 'er chest."