“They’re gone to the Arms, the greedies,” decided Aunt Harriet. “That’s where they’re gone. Never mind.” A rich clearance of Mr. Barnham’s throat declared that he was labouring of plan. “Let’s take a stroll down,” he suggested, “an’ ketch them as they come back.” Economy had driven him to speak. A premature return to their seats meant that the girl who sold chocolates would offer her tempting wares. This offer he would be bound in decency to frank. The acceptance or rejection thereof would rest with May—and Mr. Barnham did not trust May. . . . His misgivings were well founded. “Oh, who wants to stroll?” said May. “Let’s get back before the crush. I’m sure I’ve been trod and shoved enough for one night. Something crool, people are.” It was not magnificent: it was not even war: it was pure oppression—hitting the poor in spirit below the belt. Aunt Harriet acclaimed the suggestion, and the move was made. Two minutes later Mr. Barnham was eased of two shillings. He parted, sweating, with a hunted look in his eyes that went to Ann’s heart. She found herself wondering what, when he had married his bully, his life would be like. She saw him mute and shrinking before the eternal abuse, standing jaded and hungry without his own house, trying to summon the courage to enter in, dreaming of the happy days when he could buy exemption with a two-shilling piece. . . . For a blessed instant her mind left her own tragedy to suck at his. Then it leapt back, buzzing. . . . Aunt Harriet was purring hypocrisy, lying, dressing her lies in dirty splendour, fouling well after well. Ann responded mechanically, conscious that her spiritless dissembling would not have deluded a child, physically and mentally unable to play up to such form. An innocent-looking chocolate had caused Miss Gedge’s jaws to conglutinate—a comical condition of things which she was turning to generous account, throwing May and Ada into convulsions of girlish laughter. Mr. Alcock was confiding to Mr. Barnham confessions of a well-dressed man. . . . A frightful feeling of loneliness flung into Ann’s heart—a new kind of desolation, of which her philosophy had never dreamed. Sympathy was clean gone. Nobody, nothing within sight meant anything to her—or she to them. A desert island had animals and trees and skies and yellow sands: an empty house had silence and memories and dreams to offer: she had things in common with a wilderness—would have got on with Death. But this . . . There was an awful emptiness about this crowded hall, a ghostly dreariness about this blithesome flow of soul which scared and terrified. ‘As the hart panteth after the water-brooks . . .’ She was parched—mad with thirst. The muddiest trickle would have served. . . . But the saving fountains had stopped playing, the once innumerable rills were dried up. At last the lights were lowered, and the talk died down. Ann tried to shuffle her thoughts and find a way.