was the first time he had had a drop since Christmas Eve.
Mr. Winnery, who wanted clearly to be friendly, relaxed a great deal more and began telling them the story of his life in a voice loud enough to compete with the Soldiers' Chorus. He was in Brighton, he said, for a spell and he didn't think much of Brighton. Frankly, it was getting on his nerves. In his opinion it was a poor place. London for him every time. He was lonely. It was funny but he'd been hoping he'd run into some young people. He was a bit of a gay dog himself and didn't feel a day over thirty. He'd lost his wife some months ago. That was why he was wearing black clothes. He didn't like black clothes but you had to wear them. Not that she wasn't a good sort. He'd been married to her for forty years and when you'd had somebody about for forty years you missed them when they were gone. Would they have another drink? Yes. It was a hot night. He was always thirsty on hot nights. He was a ship's chandler, and a good business it was, too. He'd made a lot of money at it. And now he was trying to enjoy himself, but he couldn't do it alone, not alone. You had to have somebody to enjoy things with you.
(At this point the band swept gayly into a potpourri from Cavalleria Rusticana and Mr. Blundon dropped into a quiet slumber.) "Like most drunks," thought Bessie, "'e's got a weak head. It ain't that he drinks so much." She considered his behavior a proper breach of manners but she hadn't the courage to disturb him.
Mr. Winnery was still shouting above Mascagni's
