over the joints and hung loosely on her wrist. Then Pinkey clasped the
string of shining beads round her thin neck, the metallic lustre of the
false gems heightening the delicate pallor of her fine skin. The effect
was superb. Ada, feeling that the bride was eclipsed, pretended that her
wedding ring was hurting her, and drew all eyes to that badge of honour.

When they reached Cardigan Street, Mrs Yabsley went into the back room,
and returned grunting under the weight of a dozen bottles of beer in a
basket. Then, one by one, she set them in the middle of the table like
a group of ninepins. It seemed a pity to break the set, but they were
thirsty, and the pieman was not due for half an hour. A bottle was opened
with infinite precaution, but the faint plop of the cork reached the sharp
ears of Mrs Swadling, who was lounging at the end of the lane. The
unusual movements of Mrs Yabsley had roused her suspicions, but the
arrival of her husband, Sam fighting drunk for his tea, had interrupted
her observations. She was accustomed to act promptly, even if it were
only to dodge a plate, and in an instant her sharp features were thrust
past the door, left ajar for the sake of coolness.

"I thought I'd run across an' ask yer about that ironmould, on Sam's
collar," she began.

Then, surprised by the appearance of the room, dressed for a festival,
she looked around. Her eyes fell on the battalion of bottles, and she
stood thunderstruck by this extravagance. But Ada, anxious to display her
ring, was smoothing and patting her hair every few minutes. Already the
movement had become a habit. Unconsciously she lifted her hand and
flashed the ring in the eyes of Mrs Swadling.

"Well, I never!" she cried. "I might 'ave known wot yer were up to,