Malise.  What’s he like, this gentleman?

Mrs. Miler.  Just like the men you see on the front page o’ the daily papers.  Nasty, smooth-lookin’ feller, with one o’ them billycock hats you can’t abide.

Malise.  Isn’t he a dun?

Mrs. Miler.  They don’t be’ave like that; you ought to know, sir.  He’s after no good. [Then, after a little pause] Ain’t he to be put a stop to?  If I took me time I could get ’im, innercent-like, with a jug o’ water.

     [Malise, smiling, shakes his head.]

Malise.  You can get on now; I’m going to shave.

He looks at the clock, and passes out into the inner room.  Mrs. Miler, gazes round her, pins up her skirt, sits down in the armchair, takes off her hat and puts it on the table, and slowly rolls up her sleeves; then with her hands on her knees she rests.  There is a soft knock on the door.  She gets up leisurely and moves flat-footed towards it.  The door being opened Clare is revealed.

Clare.  Is Mr. Malise in?

Mrs. Miler.  Yes.  But ‘e’s dressin’.

Clare.  Oh.

Mrs. Miler.  Won’t take ’im long.  What name?

Clare.  Would you say—­a lady.

Mrs. Miler.  It’s against the rules.  But if you’ll sit down a moment I’ll see what I can do. [She brings forward a chair and rubs it with her apron.  Then goes to the door of the inner room and speaks through it] A lady to see you. [Returning she removes some cigarette ends] This is my hour.  I shan’t make much dust. [Noting CLARE’s eyebrows raised at the debris round the armchair] I’m particular about not disturbin’ things.

Clare.  I’m sure you are.

Mrs. Miler.  He likes ’is ’abits regular.

Making a perfunctory pass with the Bissell broom, she runs it to the cupboard, comes back to the table, takes up a bottle and holds it to the light; finding it empty, she turns it upside down and drops it into the wastepaper basket; then, holding up the other bottle, and finding it not empty, she corks it and drops it into the fold of her skirt.

Mrs. Miler.  He takes his claret fresh-opened—­not like these ’ere bawgwars.

Clare. [Rising] I think I’ll come back later.

Mrs. Miler.  Mr. Malise is not in my confidence.  We keep each other to ourselves.  Perhaps you’d like to read the paper; he has it fresh every mornin’—­the Westminister.

She plucks that journal from out of the armchair and hands it to Clare, who sits doom again unhappily to brood.  Mrs. Miler makes a pass or two with a very dirty duster, then stands still.  No longer hearing sounds, Clare looks up.

Mrs. Miler.  I wouldn’t interrupt yer with my workin,’ but ’e likes things clean. [At a sound from the inner room] That’s ’im; ’e’s cut ’isself!  I’ll just take ’im the tobaccer!