The cab entered the Euston Road, and again the cabman’s broad face was turned towards Thyme with an inquiring stare.

‘What a hateful road!’ Thyme thought.  ’What dull, ugly, common-looking faces all the people seem to have in London! as if they didn’t care for anything but just to get through their day somehow.  I’ve only seen two really pretty faces!’

The cab stopped before a small tobacconist’s on the south side of the road.

‘Have I got to live here?’ thought Thyme.

Through the open door a narrow passage led to a narrow staircase covered with oilcloth.  She raised her bicycle and wheeled it in.  A Jewish-looking youth emerging from the shop accosted her.

“Your gentleman friend says you are to stay in your rooms, please, until he comes.”

His warm red-brown eyes dwelt on her lovingly.  “Shall I take your luggage up, miss?”

“Thank you; I can manage.”

“It’s the first floor,” said the young man.

The little rooms which Thyme entered were stuffy, clean, and neat.  Putting her trunk down in her bedroom, which looked out on a bare yard, she went into the sitting-room and threw the window up.  Down below the cabman and tobacconist were engaged in conversation.  Thyme caught the expression on their faces—­a sort of leering curiosity.

‘How disgusting and horrible men are!’ she thought, moodily staring at the traffic.  All seemed so grim, so inextricable, and vast, out there in the grey heat and hurry, as though some monstrous devil were sporting with a monstrous ant-heap.  The reek of petrol and of dung rose to her nostrils.  It was so terribly big and hopeless; it was so ugly!  ’I shall never do anything,’ thought Thyme-’never—­never!  Why doesn’t Martin come?’

She went into her bedroom and opened her valise.  With the scent of lavender that came from it, there sprang up a vision of her white bedroom at home, and the trees of the green garden and the blackbirds on the grass.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs brought her back into the sitting-room.  Martin was standing in the doorway.

Thyme ran towards him, but stopped abruptly.  “I’ve come, you see.  What made you choose this place?”

“I’m next door but two; and there’s a girl here—­one of us.  She’ll show you the ropes.”

“Is she a lady?”

Martin raised his shoulders.  “She is what is called a lady,” he said; “but she’s the right sort, all the same.  Nothing will stop her.”

At this proclamation of supreme virtue, the look on Thyme’s face was very queer.  ‘You don’t trust me,’ it seemed to say, ’and you trust that girl.  You put me here for her to watch over me!...’

“I ’want to send this telegram,” she said

Martin read the telegram.  “You oughtn’t to have funked telling your mother what you meant to do.”

Thyme crimsoned.  “I’m not cold-blooded, like you.”