“Bring her:  bring her.  Is she having dear little puppies?”

“Oh dear, no.”

“A pity.  The more the merrier.  I love work.”

This decided Mavis.  With considerable misgiving, but spurred by poverty, she told the woman that she was coming.

“An’ what about binding our bargain?” asked Mrs Gowler.

“How much do you want?” asked Mavis, as she produced her purse.  “Will five shillings do?”

“It’ll do,” admitted Mrs Gowler grudgingly, although the deposit she usually received was half a crown.

“I feel rather faint.  Is there anywhere I can sit down for a minute?” asked Mavis.

“If you don’t mind the kitchen.  P’raps you’d like a cup of tea.  I always keep it ready on the fire.”

Mavis thanked her and followed Mrs Gowler to the room indicated.  Although it was late in May, a roaring fire was burning in the kitchen, about which, on various sized towel-horses, numerous articles of babies’ attire were airing.

“Too ’ot for yer?” asked Mrs Gowler.

“I don’t mind where it is so long as I sit down.”

“’Ow do you like your tea?” asked her hostess.  “Noo or stooed?”

“I’d like fresh tea if it isn’t any trouble,” replied Mavis.

The tea was quickly made, there being a plentiful supply of boiling water.  Whilst Mavis was gratefully sipping hers, a noise of something falling was heard in the scullery behind.

“It’s that dratted cat,” cried Mrs Gowler, as she caught up a broom and waddled from the kitchen.  She returned, a moment later, with something remotely approaching a look of tenderness in her eyes.

“It’s awright; it’s my Oscar,” she remarked.

Then what appeared to be a youth of eighteen years of age entered the kitchen.  He was dark, with a receding forehead; his chin, much too large for his face, seemed as if it had been made for somebody else.  His absence of expression, together with the feeling of discomfort that at once seized Mavis, told her that he was an idiot.

“Go an’ shake hands with the lady, Oscar.”

Mavis shuddered to feel his damp palm upon hers.

“You wouldn’t believe it, but ’e’s six fingers on each ’and, and ’e’s twenty-eight:  ain’t yer, Oscar?” remarked his mother proudly.

Oscar turned to grin at his mother, whilst Mavis, with all her maternal instinct aroused, avoided looking at or thinking of the idiot as much as possible.

Mrs Gowler waxed eloquent on the subject of her Oscar, to whom she was apparently devoted.  She was just telling Mavis how he liked to amuse himself by torturing the cat, when a sharp cry penetrated into the kitchen, as if coming from the neighbourhood of the front door.

“Bella’s coming on,” she said, as she caught up an apron before leaving the kitchen.  “Be nice to the lady, Oscar, and see her out, like the gent you are,” cried Mrs Gowler, before shutting the door.