“Books,” said Lee.

Rush banged the case down at the foot of Miss Lucy’s bed.

“They’re pretty well all away,” he said. “Mr. Ross, he’s in number eight, and Mr. Peter Renshaw’s in number nine a-tearing up of your Aunt Mary’s papers.”

Lee murmured “Cousin,” and got a baleful glare.

“Your Aunt Mary’s papers,” said Rush firmly. “And Miss Bingham in number twelve, she come back yesterday. And number one’s here-Mr. Pyne, he don’t go away, not much he don’t.”

“Well, that’s nice for you,” said Lee kindly.

Rush straightened up. He was a sturdy, square old man with a close-cut grey beard and a bright, belligerent eye.

“Look here, Miss Lee, I don’t want none of that,” he said. “What’s in my job I’ll do, and what’s in other people’s jobs I’ll see to it that they do, or the worse for them, but that there Pyne in number one, do you know what he arst me to do no further back than yesterday? ‘Rush,’ he says, ‘your boots is that ’eavy they jar my nerves. Couldn’t you wear slippers in the ’ouse?’ he says. Laying back in his chair he was, with smelling-salts in his ’and. And I says, ‘I could, Mr. Pyne, but I ain’t going to. It ain’t part of the job,’ I says. What’s he think I am-sick-nurse or summat?” He gave a short angry laugh.

Lee had an entertaining vision of Rush in a starched cap. She said consolingly,

“Well, you’ve still got Mr. Pyne, and this floor’s full-me in here, and Ross in number eight, and Peter in number nine. Quite a nice little family party, aren’t we?”

Rush stumped out of the room into the hall.

“I’ve not got nothing against Mr. Peter,” he said. “Mr. Ross, he’ll go too far one of these days.”

Ross seemed to have been making himself popular. Rush grumbled at everyone, but there was something harsher than a grumble in his voice now.

She said lightly, “Don’t start quarrelling with your bread and butter,” and saw the old man fling round with a jerk.