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Updated: June 27, 2025
A faint odour of scorching reached his nostrils as Mrs Yabsley passed the hot iron over the white fronts. The small black iron ran swiftly over the clean surface, leaving a smooth, shining track behind it. And he watched, with an idler's pleasure, the swift, mechanical movements. When the beer came, Jonah gallantly offered it to Mrs Yabsley, whose face was hot and red.
"'Ere, 'old 'ard! Can't a bloke git a word in edgeways?" Mrs Yabsley stopped, with an odd smile on her face. Jonah stared at her with a perplexed frown, and then the words came in a rush.
Joey the pieman had scented a new customer in Mrs Yabsley, and on the following Saturday night he stopped in front of the house and rattled the lids of his cans to attract her attention. His voice, thin and cracked with the wear of the streets, chanted his familiar cry to an accompaniment faintly suggestive of clashing cymbals: "Peas an' pies, all 'ot, all 'ot!"
Lady Ogram flushed, and fell into extreme agitation. Why had she not been told about this Yabsley? Why had not that idiot Kerchever made inquiries and heard about him? This very morning she would write him a severe letter. What, May was engaged? To a man called Yabsley? Constance, as soon as interposition was possible, protested against this over-hasty view of the matter.
Mrs Swadling, wondering what had become of Miss Perkins, found a note lying on the floor, and wondered no more when she read: DEAR MRS YABSLEY, I am sorry that I can't stay for the outing to-morrow, but my cousin came out of Darlinghurst jail this morning, and we are going to the West to make a fresh start. All I told you about my beautiful home was quite true, only I was the upper housemaid.
"I'll cum to-morrow, an' fix up the fowls," he cried, and grabbing his mouth-organ, turned to go to find his way blocked by Mrs Yabsley, carrying a shoulder of mutton and a bag of groceries. Mrs Yabsley came to the door for a breath of fresh air, and surveyed Cardigan Street with a loving eye.
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.
"I might 'ave known wot yer were up to, an' me see a weddin' in me cup only this very mornin." Mrs Yabsley looked at Jonah and laughed. "Might as well own up, Joe," she cried. "The cat's out of the bag." "Right y'are," cried Jonah. "Let 'em all come. I can't be 'ung fer it."
"No fear," said Mrs Swadling. "I ran down the yard, an' 'ollered blue murder." "Well," said Mrs Yabsley, reflectively, "an 'usband is like the weather, or a wart on yer nose. It's no use quarrelling with it. If yer don't like it, yer've got ter lump it. An' if yer believe all yer 'ear, everybody else 'as got a worse."
Ada's hair, dark and lifeless in colour, decreased the sullen heaviness of her features; Pinkey's, worn up for the first time, was a barbaric crown, shot with rays of copper and gold as it caught the light. "Yous put the kettle on, an' git the tea, an' I'll be ready in no time," said Mrs Yabsley.
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