"Never you mind, ducky! You'll 'ave one good supper anyw'y. Draw up yer chair. Don't let's wyste a minute of this precious evening."
She set the plates before him where four and twenty sausages bubbled as though they would fain burst into song like four and twenty blackbirds.
She drew her chair close to his. As he helped her to sausages and mashed potatoes he plied her with questions, his eyes raised every moment to feast on the sight of her there beside him, on her frizzy hair, her blazing cheeks, and her blue eyes bright with resolve. When his mouth became too full for speech he leant towards her and slapped her playfully on the wrist, or stamped rhythmically under the table with his feet.
At last the meal was over. The cat was given the platter to lick. Albert pulled May out of her chair on to his knees. She had to light his fag. He filled her mouth with smoke in a long close kiss and chuckled when she coughed and the smoke puffed out through her nostrils.
She grew suddenly limp and sad in his arms. Her head lay heavy on his shoulder.
"Wot's up, lovey? Too many saursages? Sleepy? Wot about stoppin' the night? Oh, I'm goin' to tyke care of you. In spite of 'er."
"Do you mind the old 'op-pickin' d'ys in Kent, when we first met, Awbert? Those were the times! Do you mind the warm soft evenin's and the nights when the pickers danced and sang 'arf the night through? And we—aoh, let's forget it!"
"No, no! Tell some more, M'y! Lor', those were the d'ys!"
"Will yer ever forget the nights in old London at the music 'all, and goin' 'ome in the starlight singin' the songs
