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Such is life at the back of York Mansions–a busy, throbbing thing.

The peace of afternoon had fallen upon the world one day towards the end of Constable Plimmer’s second week of the simple life, when his attention was attracted by a whistle. It was followed by a musical ‘Hi!’

Constable Plimmer looked up. On the kitchen balcony of a second-floor flat a girl was standing. As he took her in with a slow and exhaustive gaze, he was aware of strange thrills. There was something about this girl which excited Constable Plimmer. I do not say that she was a beauty; I do not claim that you or I would have raved about her; I merely say that Constable Plimmer thought she was All Right.

‘Miss?’ he said.

‘Got the time about you?’ said the girl. ‘All the clocks have stopped.’

‘The time,’ said Constable Plimmer, consulting his watch, ‘wants exactly ten minutes to four.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Not at all, miss.’

The girl was inclined for conversation. It was that gracious hour of the day when you have cleared lunch and haven’t got to think of dinner yet, and have a bit of time to draw a breath or two. She leaned over the balcony and smiled pleasantly.

‘If you want to know the time, ask a pleeceman,’ she said. ‘You been on this beat long?’

‘Just short of two weeks, miss.’

‘I been here three days.’

‘I hope you like it, miss.’

‘So-so. The milkman’s a nice boy.’

Constable Plimmer did not reply. He was busy silently hating the milkman. He knew him–one of those good-looking blighters; one of those oiled and curled perishers; one of those blooming fascinators who go about the world making things hard for ugly, honest men with loving hearts. Oh, yes, he knew the milkman.

‘He’s a rare one with his jokes,’ said the girl.

Constable Plimmer went on not replying. He was perfectly aware that the milkman was a rare one with his jokes. He had heard him. The way girls fell for anyone with the gift of the gab–that was what embittered Constable Plimmer.

‘He–‘ she giggled. ‘He calls me Little Pansy-Face.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, miss,’ said Constable Plimmer coldly, ‘I’ll have to be getting along on my beat.’

Little Pansy-Face! And you couldn’t arrest him for it! What a world! Constable Plimmer paced upon his way, a blue-clad volcano.

It is a terrible thing to be obsessed by a milkman. To Constable Plimmer’s disordered imagination it seemed that, dating from this interview, the world became one solid milkman. Wherever he went, he seemed to run into this milkman. If he was in the front road, this milkman–Alf Brooks, it appeared, was his loathsome name–came rattling past with his jingling cans as if he were Apollo driving his chariot. If he was round at the back, there was Alf, his damned tenor doing duets with the balconies. And all this in defiance of the known law of natural history that milkmen do not come out after five in the morning. This irritated Constable Plimmer. You talk of a man ‘going home with the milk’ when you mean that he sneaks in in the small hours of the morning. If all milkmen were like Alf Brooks the phrase was meaningless.

He brooded. The unfairness of Fate was souring him. A man expects trouble in his affairs of the heart from soldiers and sailors, and to be cut out by even a postman is to fall before a worthy foe; but milkmen–no! Only grocers’ assistants and telegraph-boys were intended by Providence to fear milkmen.

Yet here was Alf Brooks, contrary to all rules, the established pet of the mansions. Bright eyes shone from balconies when his ‘Milk–oo–oo’ sounded. Golden voices giggled delightedly at his bellowed chaff. And Ellen Brown, whom he called Little Pansy-Face, was definitely in love with him.

They were keeping company. They were walking out. This crushing truth Edward Plimmer learned from Ellen herself.

She had slipped out to mail a letter at the pillar-box on the corner, and she reached it just as the policeman arrived there in the course of his patrol.