Then he laid a hand on Ann’s knee.
“Well, Beauty, ’ow’s things?” he whispered.
He reeked of liquor . . . reeked.
Something deep inside Ann seemed to give way.
“Didn’ min’ my leavin’ you, did you, sweetheart? Just ’ad a quick one or two to celebrate. They’re a couple of ’earties, they are—’Erb Mason an’ Uncle Tom. I tell you, kid, you’ve got orf with them all right.” He slid an arm about her and held her tight. “An’ I don’ wonder, by gosh. There ain’t much left to the others when you’re around.”
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.’