The antique four-wheeler, top-heavy with luggage, swung unsteadily
round by Tattersall's and into Raphael Street. Richard thrust down the
window with a sharp bang, indicative of a strange new sense of power;
but before the cab came to a standstill he had collected himself, and
managed to alight with considerable decorum. When the door opened
in answer to his second ring, a faint, sour odour escaped from the
house, and he remembered the friendly feminine warnings which he had
received at Bursley on the subject of London lodgings. The aspect of
the landlady, however, reassured him; she was a diminutive old woman
in ridiculously short skirts, with a yellow, crinkled face, grey eyes,
and a warm, benevolent smile that conquered. As she greeted Richard she
blushed like a girl, and made a little old-fashioned curtsey. Richard
offered his hand, and, after wiping hers on a clean apron, she took it
timidly.
"I hope we shall get on well together, sir," she said, looking straight
up into her new lodger's eyes.
"I'm sure we shall," answered Richard, sincerely.
She preceded him up the narrow, frowsy staircase, which was full of
surprising turns.
"You'll find these stairs a bit awkward at first," she apologised.
"I've often thought of getting a bit of nice carpet on them, but what's
the use? It would be done for in a week. Now, here's your room, sir,
first floor front, with two nice French windows, you see, and a nice
balcony. Now, about tidying it of a morning, sir. If you'll step out
for a walk as soon as you get up, my daughter shall make the bed,
and dust, and you'll come in and find it all nice and straight for
breakfast."
"Very well," assented Richard.
"That's how I generally arrange with my young men. I like them to have
their breakfast in a nice tidy room, you see, sir. Now, what will you
have for tea, sir? A little nice bread and butter...."
When she was gone Richard formally surveyed his quarters: a long,
rather low room, its length cut by the two windows which were Mrs.
Rowbotham's particular pride; between the windows a table with a faded
green cloth, and a small bed opposite; behind the door an artfully
concealed washstand; the mantelpiece, painted mustard yellow, bore
divers squat earthenware figures, and was surmounted by an oblong
mirror framed in rosewood; over the mirror an illuminated text,
"Trust in Jesus," and over the text an oleograph, in collision with
the ceiling, entitled, "After the Battle of Culloden." The walls were
decorated with a pattern of giant pink roses; and here and there,
hiding the roses, were hung photographs of persons in their Sunday
clothes, and landscapes hand-painted in oil, depicting bridges, trees,
water, and white sails in the distance. But the furnishing of the room
caused Richard no uneasiness; in a few moments he had mentally arranged
how to make the place habitable, and thenceforth he only saw what
should and would be.
Tea was brought in by a girl whose face proclaimed her to be Mrs.
Rowbotham's daughter. At the sight of her Richard privately winked; he
had read in books about landladies' daughters, but this one gave the
lie to books; she was young, she was beautiful, and Richard would have
sworn to her innocence. With an accession of boldness which surprised
himself, he inquired her name.
"Lily, sir," she said, blushing like her mother.
He cut the new, heavy bread, and poured out a cup of tea with the
awkwardness of one unaccustomed to such work, and, having made space
on the tray, set the evening paper against the sugar basin, and began
to eat and read. Outside were two piano organs, children shouting,
and a man uttering some monotonous unintelligible cry. It grew dark;
Mrs. Rowbotham came in with a lamp and cleared the table; Richard
was looking through the window, and neither spoke. Presently he sat
down. That being his first night in London, he had determined to spend
it quietly _at home_. The piano organs and the children were still
strident. A peculiar feeling of isolation momentarily overcame him, and
the noises of the street seemed to recede. Then he went to the window
again, and noticed that the children were dancing quite gracefully; it
occurred to him that they might be ballet children. He picked up the
paper and examined the theatrical advertisements, at first idly, but
afterwards in detail.
With a long sigh, he took his hat and stick, and went very slowly
downstairs. Mrs. Rowbotham heard him fumbling with the catch of the
front door.
"Are you going out, sir?"
"Only just for a walk," said Richard, nonchalantly.
"Perhaps I'd better give you a latch-key?"
"Thanks."
Another moment and he was in the delicious streets, going east.