and stifled yells, till Ada's mother, awakened by the noise, knocked on
the wall with her slipper. And this was their romance of love.

Mrs Yabsley was a widow; for Ada's father, scorning old age, had preferred
to die of drink in his prime. The publicans lost a good customer, but his
widow found life easier.

"Talk about payin' ter see men swaller knives an' swords!" she exclaimed.
"My old man could swaller tables an' chairs faster than I could buy 'em."

So she opened a laundry, and washed and ironed for the neighbourhood.
Cardigan Street was proud of her. Her eyes twinkled in a big, humorous
face; her arm was like a leg of mutton; the floors creaked beneath her
as she walked. She laughed as a bull roars; her face turned purple;
she fought for air; the veins rose like cords on her forehead. She was
pointed out to strangers like a public building as she sat on her veranda,
gossiping with the neighbours in a voice that shook the windows. There
was no tongue like hers within a mile. Her sayings were quoted like the
newspaper. Draymen laughed at her jokes.

Yet the women took their secret troubles to her. For this unwieldy
jester, with the jolly red face and rough tongue, could touch the heart
with a word, when she was in the humour. Then she spoke so wisely and
kindly that the tears gathered in stubborn eyes, and the poor fools went
home comforted.

Ever since her daughter was a child she had speculated on her marriage.
There was to be no nonsense about love. That was all very well in
novelettes, but in Cardigan Street love-matches were a failure. Generally
the first few months saw the divine spark drowned in beer. She would pick