Uncle Tom was speaking excitedly—from a great way off. His breath . . . “Bob, Bob! She’s bin showin’ ’em ’ow to dance. Danced about with young Alcock, an’ the others give ’em the floor.” He slapped his thigh. “Glory, but I wish I’d bin there to see ’er put it across them—see my peach of a niece showin’ ole Suet wot’s wot.” He thrust an arm through Ann’s and covered her hand with his. “Strike me dead, sonny, but you’re a lucky dog. I tell you—— Hullo!” Ann had fainted. The fresh air revived her immediately, but, though she implored the others to leave her husband with her and return to their seats, they would not hear of it. After a little, she abandoned the attempt. There was no reason why they should not have returned. Indeed, the girls were obviously disappointed. There was no reason at all—except that she was doomed. That was most clear. Every slightest chance was to be crushed. She had signed on and she was to go through the hoop. Resistance was futile. That terrible ring-master, Satire, knew his job. They proceeded leisurely towards ‘Pier View.’ Mr. Mason and Miss Gedge left them at the pier gates. Bob parted with the former effusively, swaying a little as he turned. Could she have done so, Ann would have begged them to stay. The two were scrupulous: they had authority: she trusted them. Miss Gedge was kind, human, no fool. Mr. Mason’s vulgarity was but a pasteboard blade. . . . As the area steps were won, two figures emerged. These proved to be those of old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Joe Allen, of Bung Street, Plaistow, who, finding their call ill-timed, were upon the point of departure. The encounter was cordial in the extreme. A kill-joy might have suggested that Mr. Allen was under the influence of drink. The way in which concluding words of sentences occasionally rebelled against the deliberate precision with which he enunciated their predecessors might have aroused suspicion in a bigot’s mind. So might the colour of his nose—and other things. But—he was an old friend; and among friends . . . The Allens were bidden delightedly to supper; Mr. Barnham and Mr. Alcock were cavalierly sped. The party descended carefully, Ada and May tarrying for a moment with their lingering swains presumably to temper the cold wind of dismissal and make further assignations. Arrived at the door of the parlour, Ann shook off the sense of nightmare and begged to be excused. Aunt Harriet crushed her entreaty, as a boa-constrictor his prey. Food. That was what she wanted. A good bite of food. Ann had eaten nothing at tea—she had watched her. Nothing. That there fainting was nothing but want of food. Ann must trust her. She knew. Hadn’t she been a bride? How well she remembered how when—— But in _course_ Ann wasn’t hungry. Why, that was the surest sign. Food. A nice cut off the joint and a glass of stout. Why, she remembered when she was married. . . .