h the private affairs of at least three of its
neighbours, those above or below, as the case might be, and of the
family on each side. The walls and floors were so thin that, when the
least emotion set the voices of the occupants vibrating in a louder key
than usual, the neighbours knew of the crisis as soon as the
protagonists themselves, and every aspect of the dispute or discussion
was soon the common property of the whole street.

Fenton Street suited Mrs. Bindle, who was intensely exclusive. She
never joined the groups of women who stood each morning, and many
afternoons, at their front doors to discuss the thousand and one things
that women have to discuss. She occupied herself with her home,
hounding from its hiding-place each speck of dust and microbe as if it
were an embodiment of the Devil himself.

She was a woman of narrow outlook and prejudiced views, hating sin from
a sense of fear of what it might entail rather than as a result of
instinctive repulsion; yet she was possessed of many admirable
qualities. She worked long and hard in her home, did her duty to her
husband in mending his clothes, preparing his food, and providing him
with what she termed "a comfortable home."

Next to chapel her supreme joy in life was her parlour, a mid-Victorian
riot of antimacassars, stools, furniture, photograph-frames, pictures,
ornaments, and the musical-box that would not play, but was precious as
Aunt Anne's legacy. Bindle was wont to say that "when yer goes into
our parlour yer wants a map an' a guide, an' even then yer 'as to call
for 'elp before yer can get out."

Mrs. Bindle had no visitors, and consequently her domestic holy of
holies was never used. She would dust and clean and arrange; arrange,
clean, and dust with untiring zeal. The windows, although never
opened, were spotless; for she judged a woman's whole character by the
appearance of her windows and curtains. No religieuse ever devoted
more time or thought to a chapel or an altar than Mrs. Bindle to her
parlour. She might have reconciled herself to leaving anything else in
the world, but her parlour would have held her a helpless prisoner.

When everything was ready for the meal Mrs. Bindle poured from a
saucepan a red-brown liquid with cubes of a darker brown, which
splashed joyously into the dish. Bindle recognised it as stewed steak
and onions, the culinary joy of his heart.

With great appetite he fell to, almost thankful to Providence