"What is that smell?" she murmured wearily.
"Smell," said Bindle, sniffing the air like a cat when fish is boiling. "I don't smell nothink, Lizzie."
"You've burned something," she moaned feebly.
"'Ere, eat this," he said with forced cheerfulness, "then you'll feel better."
Once more Mrs. Bindle opened her eyes, gazed at the mass, then shaking her head, turned her face to the wall.
For five minutes, Bindle strove to persuade her. Finally, recognising defeat, he placed the plate on a chair by the bedside and, seating himself on a little green-painted box, worn at the edges so that the original white wood showed through, he proceeded to look the helplessness he felt.
"Feelin' better, Lizzie?" he enquired at length, holding his breath eagerly as he waited for the reply.
Mrs. Bindle shook her head drearily, and his heart sank.
Suddenly, he remembered Mrs. Hearty's earnest exhortation to keep the steam-kettle in operation. Once more he descended to the kitchen and, whilst the kettle was boiling, he occupied himself with scraping the heat-flaked milk from the top of the stove.
Throughout that night he laboured at the steam-kettle, or sat gazing helplessly at Mrs. Bindle, despair clutching at his heart, impotence dogging his footsteps. From time to time he would offer her the now cold slab of arrowroot, or else enquire if she were feeling better; but Mrs. Bindle refused the one and denied the other.