Anne did not know that. She kept Sam’s few books clean by daily elbow-grease, and now furtively wiped her dirty finger on her stocking with the feeling that she had found out Ada. The dust on the books (and certainly it was thick) confirmed the impression left by the bangles, and Anne was not in the least ashamed of her spying. Sam had stolen a march on her by warning Ada and she paid him in his own coin. And from then onwards the score rose steadily against Ada. There were cakes for tea. Now the only excuse for cakes was that one baked them oneself and Ada confessed that they came from Mrs. Stubbins and made the further mistake of showing an expert’s knowledge in the productions of Mrs. Stubbins’ confectionery shop. “Frivolous in food as well as dress,” was Anne’s comment. Her dress, Anne learnt, had been made by Madame Robinson. “She’s dear,” said Ada, “but quite French. And, of course, she comes to church.” No Nonconformists need apply; but Anne was thinking not of Madame’s religion but her bills. The employer of a quite French dressmaker called Robinson, born Duff, was no wife for Sam Branstone. And by way of making Anne’s assurance doubly sure, Ada let slip something about being under the doctor. But Anne was not sanguine. She saw clearly enough that it was precisely Ada’s weakness which was her strength with Sam. Sam had been leant upon by Madge and George, and liked it, as Anne herself, in that case, had liked it. But that was a different case from this. Madge had the claim of sisterhood; Anne could see nothing in Ada and Ada’s weakness to give her the claim to lean on Sam: and the leaning in marriage should not be one-sided. Ada could give Sam nothing except herself, and Anne did not think that gift worth having. Sam, unfortunately, did and Anne doubted her power of changing his mind. Her first attempt, at all events, must be with Ada, and she felt cramped in Ada’s house, for the reason, perhaps, that it was Peter’s house, the shrine of his simplicity. She wanted Ada cut off from the defences of the tea-table and her own familiar surroundings, and saying something about the warmth of the evening, suggested a ride on the top of a tram-car. “I often do it myself,” said Anne. “It blows the cobwebs away.” She did it as a matter of fact not often, for so it would have lost its quality of a dissipation, but with a wise irregularity she escaped the thraldom of her house on a tram-car. Tram rides were her romance, her safety-valve, her glimpse at life. Six-pennyworth of tram is cheaper in the long run than fourpennyworth of gin: both carry one away, but the tram-car brings one safely back.