The turning of the key in the latch was lively with the vision of the jumping boy. The flare of the match in the unlit hall lit up eternity. The front door was open, eternity poured in and on up the stairs. At one of those great staircase windows where the last of the twilight stood a sudden light of morning would not be surprising. Of course a letter; curly curious statements on the hall-stand.
That is mother-of-pearl, nacre; twilight nacre; crépuscule nacre; I must wait until it is gone. It is a visitor; pearly freshness pouring in; but if I wait I may feel different. With the blind up the lamp will be a lamp in it; twilight outside, the lamp on the edge of it, making the room gold, edged with twilight.
I can’t go tonight. It’s all here; I must stay here. Botheration. It’s Eve’s fault. Eve would rather go out and see that girl than stay here. Eve likes getting tied up with people. I won’t get tied up; it drives everything away. Now I’ve read the letter I must go. There’ll be afterwards when I get back. No one has any power over me. I shall be coming back. I shall always be coming back.
Perhaps it had been Madame Tussaud’s that had made this row of houses generally invisible; perhaps their own awfulness. When she found herself opposite them, Miriam recognised them at once. By day they were one high long lifeless smoke-grimed façade fronted by gardens colourless with grime, showing at its thickest on the leaves of an occasional laurel. It had never occurred to her that the houses could be occupied. She had seen them now and again as reflectors of the grime of the Metropolitan Railway. Its smoke poured up over their faces as the smoke from a kitchen fire pours over the back of a range. The sight of them brought nothing to her mind but the inside of the Metropolitan Railway; the feeling of one’s skin prickling with grime, the sense of one’s smoke-grimed clothes. There was nothing in that strip between Madame Tussaud’s and the turning into Baker Street but the sense of exposure to grime … a little low grimed wall surmounted by paintless sooty iron railings. On the other side of the road a high brown wall, protecting whatever was behind, took the grime in one thick covering, here it spread over the exposed gardens and façades turning her eyes away. Tonight they looked almost as untenanted as she had been accustomed to think them. Here and there on the black expanse a window showed a blurred light. The house she sought appeared to be in total darkness. The iron gate crumbled harshly against her gloves as she set her weight against the rusty hinges. Gritty dust sounded under her feet along the pathway and up the shallow steps leading to the unlit doorway.
Her flight up through the sickly sweet-smelling murk of the long staircase ended in a little top back room brilliant with unglobed gaslight. Miss Dear got her quickly into the room and stood smiling and waiting for a moment for her to speak. Miriam stood nonplussed, catching at the feelings that rushed through her and the thoughts that spoke in her mind. Distracted by the picture of the calm tall, gold-topped figure in the long grey skirt and the pale pink flannel dressing-jacket. Miss Dear was smiling the smile of one who has a great secret to impart. There was a saucepan or frying pan or something—with a handle—sticking out. … “I’m glad you’ve brought a book,” said Miss Dear. The room was closing up and up … the door was shut. Miriam’s exasperation flew out. She felt it fly out. What would Miss Dear do or
