He was selling the papers like hot cakes; the purchasers too eager to even wait for their change.  She wondered, with a little lump in her throat, how many would have stopped to buy had he been calling instead:  “Discovery of new sonnet by Shakespeare.  Extra special.”

Through swinging doors, she caught glimpses of foul interiors, crowded with men and women released from their toil, taking their evening pleasure.  From coloured posters outside the great theatres and music halls, vulgarity and lewdness leered at her, side by side with announcements that the house was full.  From every roaring corner, scintillating lights flared forth the merits of this public benefactor’s whisky, of this other celebrity’s beer:  it seemed the only message the people cared to hear.  Even among the sirens of the pavement, she noticed that the quiet and merely pretty were hardly heeded.  It was everywhere the painted and the overdressed that drew the roving eyes.

She remembered a pet dog that someone had given her when she was a girl, and how one afternoon she had walked with the tears streaming down her face because, in spite of her scoldings and her pleadings, it would keep stopping to lick up filth from the roadway.  A kindly passer-by had laughed and told her not to mind.

“Why, that’s a sign of breeding, that is, Missie,” the man had explained.  “It’s the classy ones that are always the worst.”

It had come to her afterwards craving with its soft brown, troubled eyes for forgiveness.  But she had never been able to break it of the habit.

Must man for ever be chained by his appetites to the unclean:  ever be driven back, dragged down again into the dirt by his own instincts:  ever be rendered useless for all finer purposes by the baseness of his own desires?

The City of her Dreams!  The mingled voices of the crowd shaped itself into a mocking laugh.

It seemed to her that it was she that they were laughing at, pointing her out to one another, jeering at her, reviling her, threatening her.

She hurried onward with bent head, trying to escape them.  She felt so small, so helpless.  Almost she cried out in her despair.

She must have walked mechanically.  Looking up she found herself in her own street.  And as she reached her doorway the tears came suddenly.

She heard a quick step behind her, and turning, she saw a man with a latch key in his hand.  He passed her and opened the door; and then, facing round, stood aside for her to enter.  He was a sturdy, thick-set man with a strong, massive face.  It would have been ugly but for the deep, flashing eyes.  There was tenderness and humour in them.

“We are next floor neighbours,” he said.  “My name’s Phillips.”

Joan thanked him.  As he held the door open for her their hands accidentally touched.  Joan wished him good-night and went up the stairs.  There was no light in her room:  only the faint reflection of the street lamp outside.