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the wedding. Alfred would have gone with Betsy to London for the occasion, but when the day came he again said to Bert that he would not go: he would stay. Mr. Redway observed this and said, ‘It’s good ofyou, Alfred.’ And he too went to where Alfred and Betsy’s house was being built. Bert, Alfred and Mr. Redway stood watching the builders, making suggestions, and Bert said suddenly, ‘Betsy looked very nice in that dress.’
    â€˜But that’s not what she’ll wear for the wedding,’ said Alfred.
    Bert seemed to be about to explode again, in anger, reproach, accusation.
    Mr. Redway said, ‘Just think, Bert. What’s all this about? Emily McVeagh is getting wed. That’s it. That’s all.’
    And that was why Alfred never got to Emily’s wedding.
    But the trouble was, if Emily had wed, Bert had not. More than once people had teased him that he was on his way to the altar, but then it all came to nothing. He took to doing his courting where his family and Alfred could not see, but last week, a girl he really did like, when he was taking her home from a dance, saw him fall down, and then watched him being very sick. She told him this was not how she visualized her future – Alfred knew about it, but not the parents, and Bert begged him not to tell them.
    â€˜They’ve been going on at me about getting married, but you don’t seem to find it difficult.’
    Now he had followed Betsy with his eyes, smiled when he looked at her, not knowing that he did, and Betsy told Alfred, ‘He’s just like Rover.’ This was Mr. Redway’s big black dog, which adored her.
    Then Betsy was being sick, and pregnant, and the doctor began joking that she must be having twins. She was large veryearly, and now it was a question of whether the house would be ready in time for the birth.
    â€˜I hope it will be. We don’t have room here for a child,’ moaned Mrs. Redway, as if Bert had not been brought up in what was a pretty sizeable house.
    When Bert returned in the evenings, drunk, Betsy scolded him, and he made excuses, and then one morning, entering the kitchen for breakfast, he had a scarlet weal on his cheek: apparently he did not know it. And now Betsy, seeing it, began to cry and said, ‘Oh, Bert, you have to stop, you must,’ while Bert dabbed at his cheek and succeeded in springing the blood, which ran. Betsy ran around to staunch the blood with her napkin while he joked and said it was worthwhile getting a bit of a scar, as she fussed over him.
    â€˜It’s not funny, Bert,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen this before, with my cousin Edward. He was a drunk like you and he wouldn’t stop and then he left the haycart brakes off and the cart ran back and killed him.’
    Mrs. Redway was tittering and gasping. She had watched her son descend through states and conditions of drunkenness but apparently decided not to notice it.
    â€˜Oh, Betsy,’ she moaned. ‘Bert isn’t…he isn’t…’
    â€˜Yes, he is,’ said Mr. Redway. ‘And she’s right, Bert, you have to stop.’
    â€˜Or you’ll be like my Uncle George,’ said Betsy. ‘He drank himself to death a couple of Christmases ago.’
    â€˜Betsy has an unlimited number of relatives who can be moral lessons to all of us,’ said Alfred.
    â€˜Well, yes, I have,’ she said. ‘That’s one good thing about being a member of a large family. And I’m sorry for you, Alfred. Not being.’
    â€˜Well, there’s my brother,’ said Alfred. ‘But I am sure he never drinks anything but champagne.’
    â€˜Champers is no good,’ said Bert. ‘It gives you a headache.’
    â€˜I wasn’t joking,’ said Betsy. She didn’t like Alfred’s snooty brother. ‘And there’s my brother, Percy. No one ever says he’s a drunk, but he is. On the way to the DTs,’ said