The kitchen was still crowded when I returned, and I listened to a babel of voices. Very few of the women were Londoners, they mostly seemed to hail from the provinces. Quite a number from Liverpool, some from Wales and Ireland with bonny Scotland holding its own. A sturdy young woman with bright eyes was industriously marking up her face. She wore the inevitable sunset stockings and her patent shoes, brightly polished, were painfully thin.

“I’ve had awful bad luck today,” she said. “But I’m going to have another shot before I turn in. There’ll be time before the pubs close to go up to the park, and maybe, I’ll get a man to buy me a drink.”