When he had passed under the Workhouse tower he came to a side street which, according to Haim’s description of the neighbourhood, ought to have been Alexandra Grove.  The large lamp on the corner, however, gave no indication, nor in the darkness could any sign be seen on the blind wall of either of the corner houses in Fulham Road.  Doubtless in daytime the street had a visible label, but the borough authorities evidently believed that night endowed the stranger with powers of divination.  George turned hesitant down the mysterious gorge, which had two dim lamps of its own, and which ended in a high wall, whereat could be descried unattainable trees—­possibly the grove of Alexandra.  Silence and a charmed stillness held the gorge, while in Fulham Road not a hundred yards away omnibuses and an occasional hansom rattled along in an ordinary world.  George soon decided that he was not in Alexandra Grove, on account of the size of the houses.  He could not conceive Mr. Haim owning one of them.  They stood lofty in the gloom, in pairs, secluded from the pavement by a stucco garden-wall and low bushes.  They were double-fronted, and their doors were at the summits of flights of blanched steps that showed through the bars of iron gates.  They had three stories above a basement.  Still, he looked for No. 8.  But just as the street had no name, so the houses had no numbers.  No. 16 alone could be distinguished; it had figures on its faintly illuminated fanlight.  He walked back, idly counting.

Then, amid the curtained and shuttered facades, he saw, across the road, a bright beam from a basement.  He crossed and peeped through a gate, and an interior was suddenly revealed to him.  Near the window of a room sat a young woman bending over a table.  A gas-jet on a bracket in the wall, a few inches higher than her head and a foot distant from it, threw a strong radiance on her face and hair.  The luminous living picture, framed by the window in blackness, instantly entranced him.  All the splendid images of the past faded and were confuted and invalidated and destroyed by this intense reality so present and so near to him.  (Nevertheless, for a moment he thought of her as the daughter of Sir Thomas More.) She was drawing.  She was drawing with her whole mind and heart.  At intervals, scarcely moving her head, she would glance aside at a paper to her left on the table....  She seemed to search it, to drag some secret out of it, and then she would resume her drawing.  She was neither dark nor fair; she was comely, perhaps beautiful; she had beautiful lips, and her nose, behind the nostrils, joined the cheek in a lovely contour, like a tiny bulb.  Yes, she was superb.  But what mastered him was less her fresh physical charm than the rapt and extreme vitality of her existing....  He knew from her gestures and the tools on the table that she could be no amateur.  She was a professional.  He thought:  Chelsea!...  Marvellous place, Chelsea!  He ought to have found that out long ago.  He imagined Chelsea full of such pictures—­the only true home of beauty and romance.