. She enquired why he had not been to the front (Mr.
Stiffson was over fifty years of age), why he was not in the
volunteers. Then slightly elevating her head she demanded of Heaven
why he was permitted to live. She traced all degradation, including
that of the lower animals, to the example of such men as her husband.
He was the breaker-up of homes, in some way or other connected with
the increased death-rate and infant mortality, the indirect cause of
the Income Tax and directly responsible for the war; she even hinted
that he was to some extent answerable for the defection of Russia from
the Allied cause.

Whilst she was haranguing, Bindle and Cissie Boye, with the aid of
desert spoons, were endeavouring to remove the porridge from Mr.
Stiffson's head. It had collected behind his spectacles, forming a
succulent pad before each eye.

Bindle listened to Mrs. Stiffson's tirade with frank admiration;
language always appealed to him.

"Ain't she a corker!" he whispered to Cissie Boye.

"Cork's out now, any old how," was the whispered reply.

Then Mrs. Stiffson did a very feminine thing. She gave vent to three
short, sharp snaps of staccatoed laughter, and suddenly collapsed upon
the sofa in screaming hysterics.

Cissie Boye made a movement towards her. Bindle laid an arresting hand
upon her arm.

"You jest leave 'er be, miss," he said. "I know all about them little
games. She'll come to all right."

"Where the hell is that damn porter?" the voice of Number Seven burst
in upon them from the outer corridor.

"'Ere I am, sir," sang out Bindle.

"Then why the corruption aren't you in your room?" bawled Number
Seven.

Bindle slipped quickly out into the corridor to find Number Seven
bristling with rage.

"Because Ole Damn an' 'Op it, I can't be in two places at once," he
said.

Whilst Bindle was engaged with Number Seven, Mrs. Stiffson had once
more galvanised herself to action. Still screaming and laughing by
turn, she wheeled out of the flat with incredible rapidity and made
towards the lift.

"Hi! stop 'er, stop 'er!" shouted Bindle, bolting after Mrs. Stiffson,
followed by Number Seven.

"Police, police, murder, murder!" screamed Mrs. Stiffson. She reached
the lift and, with an agility that would have been creditable in a
young goat, slipped in and shut the gates with a clang. Just as Bindle
arrived the lift began slowly to descend. In a fury of impatience,
Mrs. Stiffson began banging at the buttons, w