“Now, look ’ere, Bobbie lad,” said Uncle Tom, “don’t you go rushin’ in. Ten to one’s a bit thick. Jus’ ’cause it’s your day out, that ain’t no call for you to go treatin’——” “Why not?” cried Bob. “Why, I want you all to remember this day, I do—the ’appies’ day o’ my life. Ten? I wish you was fifty. I’ve becked a winner to-day—drawn the firs’ prize in the bigges’ sweep on earth. . . . Look at ’er standin’ there! Ain’t she a peach? An’ you want me to ’old me ’and for a matter o’ thirty bob!” “’Ooray!” cried Mr. Mason. “’Ooray! An’ mind—the firs’ Benger’s with me.” Laughter and cheers confirmed the acceptance of hospitality. Feeling as though she had dashed herself against a wall, Ann stammered something about getting her hat. “Oh, it’s right opposight,” said Ada. “We never wear ’ats jus’——” She stopped with a jerk. Aunt Harriet filled up the hole. “I’m afraid it soun’s very lax, Lady Ann, but, you know, this year the residents proper ’ave to a great extent given up wearin’ ’eadgear of nights. In fac’, I think we should be remarked on . . .” “Oh, I don’t mind in the least,” said Ann. “In fact, I like it much better.” After all, what on earth did it matter? What did anything matter? She was married . . . married to Bob . . . tied for life . . . _life_: and she was boggling about going uncovered! They passed out of the house. Aunt Harriet delaying the procession to enjoin a sickly charwoman to clear, wash up and set the table for six. “For _six_,” she repeated meaningly, trusting thereby to promote such operation of mental arithmetic as would convince Mr. Barnham and Mr. Alcock that they were not expected to return. “Oh, an’ Mrs. Perch—I’ve measured the beef.” “Very good, Mrs. Root,” said that lady, breathing through her nose. “I’ll bet you ’ave,” she added under her breath. “Rotten ole toad.” When the door was shut, she shed a few tears of chagrin. It was a beautiful bit of beef. The pier was indeed conveniently close. In less than a minute they stood before its gates. The negotiation of the turnstile offered opportunities of humour, none of which were missed. The surly controller was rallied, rose and was appropriately mocked. His impotent indignation, hastily but vigorously served, followed them down the pier. After the fresh sea air the breathless reek of the cinema was stale and stifling. It was the Saturday evening of a blazing week, to whose rare invitation the audience had healthily responded. Ann could have choked. She sat between Bob and Uncle Tom, with the former’s arm about her and her left hand in his.