Christmas was near at hand, and for weeks past the choir had been working under forced-draught, practising carols. That had given Mrs. Bindle the idea of devoting her evening entirely to seasonable music.
"Wot jer call me for?" demanded Bindle presently, remembering the reason of his presence.
"Don't forget to get a pail of coals and put it in the kitchen," she ordered.
"We shan't want no coals, Mrs. B., with all that 'ot stuff we got a-comin'," he muttered lugubriously. "Why ain't we got a bit o' mistletoe?" he demanded.
"Don't be disgusting," she retorted.
"Disgustin'!" he cried innocently. "There ain't nothink disgustin' in a bit o' mistletoe."
"I won't have such things in my house," she announced with decision. "You've got a lewd mind."
"There ain't nothink lood in kissin' a gal under the mistletoe," he demurred, "or under anythink else," he added as an after-thought.
"You're nasty-minded, Bindle, and you know it."
"Well, wot are we goin' to do at a party if there ain't goin' to be no kissin'?" he persisted, looking about him with unwonted despondency.