ANGEL PAVEMENT

"Will you have a little port wine, Mrs. Dalby?" said
Mr. Smeeth, who felt that he must do something.

"Just the tiniest, weeniest sip, Mr. Smeeth/' she re-
plied. And when he had brought her the Rich Ruby,
she continued: "Lively to-night, aren't we?"

"Very," he told her.

She gave him a quick glance. "Well, it's nice to see
people enjoying themselves. But you look a bit tired
to-night, Mr. Smeeth."

"Oh, I don't know—do I? Feel all right, y'know, Mrs.
Dalby." Did he feel all right? What about that little
tick-tick of pain somewhere inside him? "I've been
working hard just lately. We've been busy, for once."

"You're inside all the time, aren't you?" said Mrs.
Dalby seriously and sympathetically. "And that's what
tells on you. Tom works very hard—though you
wouldn't think so, to hear him talk—but he's out most of
the time, on his round, you know, and so it's not so
bad for him, unless we get a spell of nasty damp weather
and then he begins to feel it in the chest. He's had
chest trouble before?"

"Has he really?" said Mr. Smeeth. This was not a
very cheerful conversation, but nevertheless it pleased
him. Mrs. Dalby was a nice quite ladylike sort of
woman, and talking to her in this company was like
having a few words with a sane person in a madhouse.

"That's right, Fred," Mrs. Smeeth shouted. "Do help
yourself."

"Trust me!" roared Fred, who was pouring himself
out some whisky. Yes, there was a bottle of whisky,
as well as some beer and the Rich Ruby. So far as Mr.
Smeeth could see, half the week's housekeeping money
must have been spent on this racket.