Sutton, a lean man not much more than Hester's height, sat on one of the few unsplintered kitchen chairs. He stood up the moment he saw her. The brown and white Jack Russell terrier at his feet wagged his tail furiously, but he was too tightly disciplined to dart forward.

Sutton's thin face lit up with pleasure and what looked like relief. "Mornin', Miss 'Ester. 'Ow are yer?"

"I'm very well, Mr. Sutton," she replied. "How are you? I'm sure you could manage some breakfast, couldn't you? I'm having some."

"That'd be very civil of yer." He watched her, sitting down as soon as she had.

Margaret had already eaten at home; she never ate the clinic's rations unless she was there for too long to abstain. She collected most of the clinic's funds through her social acquaintances, and she was far too sensitive to the difficulty of that to waste a farthing or consume herself what could be used for the sick. She would make an excellent mistress of this in Hester's place.

Sutton devoured his porridge and then toast and marmalade, while Hester had just the toast and jam. They were both on their second cup of tea when Claudine excused herself and they were left alone. Much against her own better judgment, Claudine had given Snoot porridge and milk as well, and he was now happily asleep in front of the hearth.

"She'll spoil 'im rotten, that woman," Sutton said as Claudine closed the door. "Wot good'll 'e be fer rattin' if 'e's 'anded 'is breakfast on a plate?"

Hester did not bother to answer. It was part of the slow retreat by which Claudine was going to allow Sutton to understand that she granted him a reluctant respect. She was a lady, and he caught rats. She would not bring herself to treat him as an equal, which would have made both of them uncomfortable, but she would be more than civil to the dog. That was different, and they both understood it perfectly.

"What is it?" Hester asked, before they should be interrupted again by some business of the day.

He did not prevaricate. They had come to know each other well during the crisis of the autumn. He looked at her earnestly, his brow furrowed. "I dunno as there's anythin' yer can do, but I gotta try all I can. We all knows about the Great Stink an 'ow the river smells summink evil, an' they're doin' summink about it, at last. An' that's all as it should be." He shook his head. "But most folks 'oo live aboveground in't got no idea wot goes on underneath."

"No," she agreed with only a faint gnawing of concern. "Should we?"