Miss Florence Simcox, somewhat breathless, tripped away, with simulated
coyness and many curtseys. She had done her task, and as a woman she
had to go: this was a gathering of members of the Mutual Burial Club, a
masculine company, and not meet for females. The men pulled themselves
together, remembering that their proudest quality was a stoic
callousness that nothing could overthrow. They refilled pipes, ordered
more beer, and resumed the mask of invulnerable solemnity.
"Aye!" muttered Mr Enoch Peake.
Edwin, with a great effort, rose and walked out. He would have liked to
say good night to Big James; he did not deny that he ought to have done
so; but he dared not complicate his exit. On the pavement outside, in
the warm damp night, a few loitering listeners stood doggedly before an
open window, hearkening, their hands deep in their pockets, motionless.
And Edwin could hear Mr Enoch Peake: "Gentlemen all, Mester Arthur
Smallrice, Mester Abraham Harracles, Mester Jos Rampick, and Mester
James Yarlett--"