Ann perceived that here was another of Satire’s subtleties. Nothing so obvious as tragedy was to be her portion. She was to be tormented by a roaring farce—a farce that was founded on tears and broken dreams and all the cureless agony of passionate regret. It was the Dance of Doom, if not of Death. When Aunt Harriet reappeared, lugging the dressing-case, she was manifestly conscious that, but for her guest’s whimsy, she would have been spared great provocation, distasteful exercise and—most important of all—a menial task. She certainly managed to smile, but it was a crooked business. She felt that her mask had slipped. So soon as Ann was ready, the two descended—thoughtfully. The ladylike bond of union which Aunt Harriet had forged seemed to have stretched. All Ann’s efforts to contract it but served to emphasize its slenderness. Mercifully, Bob was in the parlour, exchanging cheerful reminiscences with a jolly, fat man who proved to be Uncle Tom. Her husband presented Ann, with shining eyes. For a moment the fat man looked at her. Then he inclined his head. “Your servant, me lady,” he said respectfully. “Rot,” said Ann. “You’re my uncle,” and kissed him then and there. “Oh, you peach,” said her uncle, and kissed her back. With his arm about her, he addressed the rest of the company. “Jus’ leave us alone a few minutes, will you?” he said. “There’s one or two ’ymns we want to run over together.” This allusion to a recent scandal in which a local pillar of the nonconformist church was involved naturally evoked great merriment. Ann tried to be thankful. It also inspired Mr. Alcock. “Break away, break away, there,” he cried. Uncle Tom screwed round his head. “Percy, me lad,” he said, “you ’aven’t a chance. This little girl likes ’em fat.” Squeaks of delight contributed to another explosion of mirth. They sat down to tea hilariously. . . . “Do you ’unt at all?” said Mr. Alcock, presenting a dish of shrimps. “I’ve given it up,” said Ann. “’E means by night,” said Uncle Tom. The laughter was renewed. “Oh, give over, pa,” wailed Ada. “You’ve give me the ’iccups.” It was too true. Seats were left: remedies were commended: the victim was conjured—to no purpose. Spasm succeeded spasm with sickening regularity. “’Old your breath,” said Bob. Ada inspired and sat like a graven image. The others watched her in a silence pregnant with expectation. Her eyes began to protrude. . . . “Stick it,” said Bob. “Stick it.” A dusky flush began to steal into her face: sweat gathered on her brow: she was squinting. . . . At last she let her breath go with a loose rush. For a moment she breathed peacefully. Then a belated spasm convulsed her frame. There was a rustle of consternation. Suddenly, with a blood-curdling roar, Mr. Barnham smote upon the board. In a second all was confusion.