And here was the Academy. Miss Bray pressed with all her might against the stiff, sulky door, squeezed through into the vestibule hung with pallid notices and concert programmes, and stumbled up the dusty stairs and along the passage to the dressing-room. Through the open door there came such shrill loud laughter, such high, indifferent voices that it sounded like a play going on in there. It was hard to believe people were not laughing and talking like that ... on purpose. “Excuse me—pardon—sorry,” said Miss Bray, nudging her way in and looking quickly round the dingy little room. Her two friends had not yet come. The First Violins were there; a dreamy, broad-faced girl leaned against her ’cello; two Violas sat on a bench, bent over a music book, and the Harp, a small grey little person, who only came occasionally, leaned against a bench and looked for her pocket in her underskirt.... * * * * * “I’ve a run of three twice, ducky,” said Ma, “a pair of queens make eight, and one for his nob makes nine.” With an awful hollow groan Alexander, curling his little finger high, pegged nine for Ma. And “Wait now, wait now,” said she, and her quick short little hands snatched at the other cards. “My crib, young man!” She spread them out, leaned back, twitched her shawl, put her head on one side. “H’m, not so bad! A flush of four and a pair!” “Betrayed! Betrayed!” moaned Alexander, bowing his dark head over the cribbage board, “and by a woo-man.” He sighed deeply, shuffled the cards and said to Ma, “Cut for me, my love!” Although of course he was only having his joke like all professional young gentlemen, something in the tone in which he said “my love!” gave Ma quite a turn. Her lips trembled as she cut the cards, she felt a sudden pang as she watched those long slim fingers dealing. Ma and Alexander were playing cribbage in the basement kitchen of number 9 Bolton Street. It was late, it was on eleven, and Sunday night, too—shocking! They sat at the kitchen table that was covered with a worn art serge cloth spotted with candle grease. On one corner of it stood three glasses, three spoons, a saucer of sugar lumps and a bottle of gin. The stove was still alight, and the lid of the kettle had just begun to lift, cautiously, stealthily, as though there was someone inside who wanted to have a peep and pop back again. On the horse-hair sofa against the wall by the door, the owner of the third glass lay asleep, gently snoring. Perhaps because he had his back to them, perhaps because his feet poked out from the short overcoat covering him, he looked forlorn, pathetic, and the long fair hair covering his collar looked forlorn and pathetic, too. “Well, well,” said Ma, sighing as she put out two cards and arranged the others in a fan, “such is life. I little thought when I saw the last of you this morning that we’d be playing a game together tonight.”