THE "ANGEL" LOSES A CUSTOMER Six months after the death of Mrs Yabsley, Ada and Mrs Herring sat in the back parlour of the Angel sipping brandy.

They had drunk their fill and it was time to be going, but Ada had no desire to move.

She tapped her foot gently as she listened to the other woman's ceaseless flow of talk, but her mind was elsewhere.

She had reached the stage when the world seemed a delightful place to live in; when it was a pleasure to watch the people moving and gesticulating like figures in a play, without jar or fret, as machines move on well-oiled cogs.
There was nothing to show that she had been drinking, except an uncertain smile that rippled over her heavy features as the wind breaks the surface of smooth water.

Mrs Herring was as steady as a rock, but she knew without looking that the end of her nose was red, for drink affected that organ as heat affects a poker.