CHAPTER IV




At ten o'clock on the evening of Easter Sunday, Mrs. Mutimer was
busy preparing supper. She had laid the table for six, had placed at
one end of it a large joint of cold meat, at the other a vast
flee-pudding, already diminished by attack, and she was now slicing
a conglomerate mass of cold potatoes and cabbage prior to heating it
in the frying-pan, which hissed with melted dripping just on the
edge of the fire. The kitchen was small, and everywhere reflected
from some bright surface either the glow of the open grate or the
yellow lustre of the gas-jet; red curtains drawn across the window
added warmth and homely comfort to the room. It was not the kitchen
of pinched or slovenly working folk; the air had a scent of
cleanliness, of freshly scrubbed boards and polished metal, and the
furniture was super-abundant. On the capacious dresser stood or hung
utensils innumerable; cupboards and chairs had a struggle for wall
space; every smallest object was in the place assigned to it by use
and wont.

The housewife was an active woman of something less than sixty;
stout, fresh-featured, with a small keen eye, a firm mouth, and the
look of one who, conscious of responsibilities, yet feels equal to
them; on the whole a kindly and contented face, if lacking the
suggestiveness which comes of thought. At present she seemed on the
verge of impatience; it was supper time, but her children lingered.