Halfway through the programme, there was an interval for refreshments. Mavis was conducted by Mr Poulter to a table set apart for the artistes in the room in which the lightest of light refreshments were served to his patrons.
Mavis sat down to a plateful of what looked uncommonly like her old friend, brisket of beef; she was now so hungry that she was glad to get anything so substantial.
"'Ow are you gettin' on?" asked a familiar voice over her shoulder.
Mavis looked up, to see Miss Nippett, who had discarded her cap and apron; she was now in her usual rusty frock, with her shawl upon her narrow, stooping shoulders.
"All right, thank you. Why don't you have some?"
"No, thank you. I can't spare the time. I'm 'light refreshments.'"
"But they're all eaten!" remarked Mavis, as her eye ranged along a length of table-cloth innocent of food or decoration.
"'Poulter's' ain't such a fool as to stick nothink out; it would all be 'wolfed' in a second. Let 'em ask."
"Some people mightn't like to."
"That's their look-out," snapped Miss Nippett, who had a heart of stone where the interests of anything antagonistic to "Poulter's" were concerned.