"I pays for dressin'," he observed. "The cigar was me own idea. It gives a sort o' finish, eh, Millikins?"
They walked past the Fulham Grand Theatre, and at the Cinema Palace on the Fulham side of the bridge Bindle paused.
"Not this one, the one over the bridge," Millie cried anxiously.
"Further to walk for yer ole uncle."
"But—but—" faltered MilHe, "Charlie Chaplin's at the other and I do so want to see him."
"Charlie Chaplin's 'ere too, Millikins. Look, it says so."
"Oh, uncle, please, please, the other one." There were tears in Millie's eyes and her voice shook.
Bindle was puzzled, but to please her he would have walked over many bridges.
"Uncle, you are good," was all she said as she smiled at him happily.
They passed over the bridge in silence, watching the stream of trams, buses, and people. When with Millie, Bindle never ventured upon those little personalities in which he indulged when alone.
"Do yer like chapel, Millikins?" Bindle enquired suddenly.
"I hate it, Uncle Joe!" There was such feeling and decision in Millie's voice that Bindle turned and regarded her curiously.
