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. . . .