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 lodgings¹. The aspect of the landlady², however, reassured³ him; she was a diminutive⁴ old woman in ridiculously short skirts, with a yellow, crinkled face, grey eyes, and a warm, benevolent⁵ 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 apron⁶, 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," assented⁸ 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 concealed⁹ washstand; the mantelpiece, painted mustard yellow, bore divers¹⁰ squat¹¹ earthenware¹² figures, and was surmounted¹³ by an oblong mirror framed in rosewood; over the mirror an illuminated¹⁴ 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, depicting¹⁵ 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 privately¹⁶ winked¹⁷; he had read in books about landladies¹⁸' daughters, but this one gave the lie to books; she was young, she was beautiful, and Richard would have sworn to her innocence¹⁹. 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 monotonous²⁰ unintelligible²¹ cry. It grew dark; Mrs. Rowbotham came in with a lamp and cleared the table; Richard was looking through the window, and neither spoke²². Presently he sat down. That being his first night in London, he had determined²³ to spend it quietly at home. The piano organs and the children were still strident. A peculiar²⁴ feeling of isolation²⁵ momentarily overcame him, and the noises of the street seemed to recede⁷. Then he went to the window again, and noticed that the children were dancing quite gracefully²⁶; it occurred to him that they might be ballet children. He picked up the paper and examined the theatrical²⁷ 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 fumbling²⁸ 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.