‘Of course you can!’ cried Sophia, by now only too delighted at the idea of being able to help the old woman in any way. ‘Twice a week – will you?’

‘On Wednesdays and Sat’days,’ agreed the goblin, eagerly and importantly. ‘That’ll keep it nice, see?’

‘I’m sure it will. And how about – will one and sixpence be enough, do you think?’

‘Aow, you are good to me, dear!’

‘Well now, would you like a cup of tea? Do have one. It’s so refreshing when – when you’re tired.’

‘Aow I will, dear. Thank you very much, dear. I’ll do the step first, see? You give me a drop of water, and I’ll soon ’ave it nice. I got me own bucket …’ and here she rummaged round the corner of the door, and produced a zinc pail with a worn scrubbing brush in it, a cloth which was chiefly shreds, and a very small piece of hearthstone. ‘You juss give me the water, see, and I’ll soon be done.’

Sophia drew her some in the bucket, and closing the door because she was eagerly assured that ‘I can get on, dear; I’ll get along fine, see,’ she left the goblin to its task and tried to finish her breakfast.

But it was no use. She was clean put off it; and so she cleared it away, wondering whether a cloth which was so shreddy, such a worn brush and two such terrible little twisted hands could possibly, between them, produce a snow-white step; and whether she was to be put off her breakfast every Wednesday and Saturday morning?

There was a long pause. She went upstairs and made the beds, not daring to peer out of the window at the unsuspecting goblin for fear it should look up and see her and be hurt.

Finally, while she was prowling uneasily about in the boys’ room, there came the flat knock at the door again. But this time it was more robust and cheerful.

The old woman was standing outside looking timidly at Sophia and then down at the step.

It certainly did not look very nice. It was not quite clean, and it was smeary.

‘It’ll dry white, dear. It’s a bit of a job, see, ’cos the stone’s very worn, and it don’t come up so nice, and me brush is a bit old, see, and I really need a new cloth. It’s the Enbury water; terribly ’ard, it is. It won’t lather, see.’

Sophia was waiting for her to say that the bucket leaked and that she never could clean steps in a high wind, but her flood of excuses stopped abruptly, and she stood silently looking up at Sophia, waiting for encouragement and praise.

She was evidently not used to either, and looking at her dirtiness, her inefficiency and a certain air of most unbefitting pugnacity and determination which had showed itself in her feeble but obstinate attack on the door knocker, and her sudden production of the implements for step cleaning which she had concealed in readiness, Sophia was not surprised. Her manner combined an excess of self-pity with a certain arrogance. She was a putting-off old woman. One felt that she was going to be the most frightful nuisance all the year round. One looked into the future, and one quailed.