Walking across the kitchen and along the short passage, she threw open the door with the air of one who was prepared to defend the sacred domestic hearth against all comers.
"I've come about the 'ouse, mum." A mild-looking little man with a dirty collar and a deprecating manner stood before her, sucking nervously at a hollow tooth, the squeak of which his friends had learned to live down.
"The house!" repeated Mrs. Bindle aggressively. "What house?"
"This 'ouse wot's to let, mum." The little man struggled to extract a newspaper from his pocket. "I'd like to take it," he added.
"Oh! you would, would you?" Mrs. Bindle eyed him with disfavour. "Well, it's not to let," and with that she banged the door in the little man's face, just as his pocket gave up the struggle and released a soiled copy of The Fulham Signal.
He started back, the paper falling upon the tiled-path that led from the gate to the front-door.
For nearly a minute he stood staring at the door, as if not quite realising what had happened. Then, picking up the paper, he gazed at it with a puzzled expression, turned to a marked passage under the heading "Houses to Let," and read:
HOUSE TO LET.—Four-roomed house to let in Fulham. Easy access to bus, tram and train. Rent 15/6 a week. Immediate possession. Apply to occupier, 7 Fenton Street, Fulham, S.W.
He looked at the number on the door, back again at the paper, then once more at the number. Apparently satisfied that there was no mistake, he knocked again, a feeble, half-hearted knock that testified to the tremors within him.
He had been graded C3; but he possessed a wife who was, physically, A1. It was the knowledge that she would demand an explanation if he failed to secure the house, after which she had sent him hot-foot, that inspired him with sufficient courage to make a second attempt to interview Mrs. Bindle.