"Was that your husband?" cried Marcella, stopping short in her toast-making.
"Oh, he's bin at you, has he?" said Mrs. King resignedly.
"I gave him—a little money. I didn't know he was your husband," said Marcella apologetically.
"I ought to have warned you, but there, you can't think of every blooming thing at once. Don't you worry, kid. I'm not blaming you. He would have been at you sooner or later. It's all the same in the long run, but it means I've got to scrub the floors. And my back's that bad—I do suffer with my back something cruel."
"Where has he gone, then?"
"Oh, beer-bumming. He goes off every day, and comes in every night after closing time, shikkered up."
"I've never seen him before," ventured Marcella.
"He's a lad, Bob is. We had a bonser hotel once, kid—a tied house, you know. He was manager, on'y he drunk us out of it. So then I took on this place on my own—got the furniture hire system, else he'd raise money on it, and sell it up under me. He's no damn good to me, you know, kid—only I do manage to get a bit of scrubbing out of him, of a morning."
"Does he scrub floors?" asked Marcella in awestruck tones.
"It's all he's good for. He never earns a penny. He goes and tacks on to any fellow he sees looking a bit flushed with money and boozes with him all day. He often meets a fellow that knew us when we had the hotel, and he gets a beer or two out of him."