For a few minutes Bindle looked about him, then once more fixed his gaze upon the oven.
"Wot time you goin' to 'ave dinner, Lizzie?" he asked, with all the geniality of a prodigal doubtful of his welcome.
"I've had it." Mrs. Bindle's lips met in a hard, firm line.
"Is mine in the oven?"
"Better look and see."
He walked across to the stove and opened the oven door. It was as bare as the cupboard of Mrs. Hubbard.
"Wot you done with it, Lizzie?" he enquired, misgiving clutching at his heart.
"What have I done with what?" she snapped, as she brought her iron down with a bang that caused him to jump.
"My little bit o' groundsel."
"When you talk sense, perhaps I can understand you."