She was past all rousing. Heavily drugged, she had gone over the border line to the world of the imagination, and the house might have been a fire, or murder committed straight in front of her, and she would not have known. I left her, and made my way back through the room, across the landing, down the flight of rickety stairs, and so out into the alley.
Some of the lodgers were already astir, searching among strange and unsavoury bundles in the dim light. Unlike Kennedy Court, most of the sojourners brought their bundles, which seemed to consist very largely of horrid looking skins—“mog,” I suppose, in process of transfiguration to a higher plane. The skins of rabbit, cat and even dog, looked creepy, and I suspected insects and hurried past, with fearful feet.
It was a relief to be back in the open air once more, though the alley was by no means fragrant, forlorn and dilapidated dustbins obtruded their unseemly presence on the path side. I walked off my anger along the Waterloo Bridge Road, and so over the bridge and along the Strand. By this time the business of the day was astir, and over the bridges were coming those fragile, pretty creatures that London breeds by hundreds, nay, thousands; delicate daughters of the suburbs on the way to those offices where, victims of a white slave traffic in the commercial sense, they tap typewriters for seven or eight hours a day.
I walked leisurely up to Holborn, and then, suddenly, just after nine o’clock, a rage of hunger fell upon me. I was gripped by the desire for food so fiercely that I felt I must scream in anger that I was baulked of a meal. Then I understood how it happened that starving women and men should suddenly break windows and throw stones. It is the result of an extreme want of nourishment, an active and impelling craving for hot drink, fresh bread and, if you are driven to the last ditch, roast meat. Think of the whole universe resolving itself into an anguished frenzy for a mutton chop, friend bacon and a poached egg! Think of wanting to eat so much that you could almost barter your most cherished recollections; your love of literature, the swing of those stately phrases which march through the mind like a triumphant army—for food!
A curious state—when the sheer force of an ill-fed body masters the mind and, like a savage, makes you run amuck. But it is something to have experienced such a moment. It is something to know why it is that women suddenly destroy the nearest thing to hand. I ask you to leave your comfortable beds, your well-spread tables, and live among the destitute, and you also will feel an overwhelming impulse to break windows or beat your hands against the stones.
I did not do either of these things, though I wanted to. But I determined, however I got it, I would have breakfast. I stood at the top of Southampton Row, and eyed the men on their way to their business. And then I selected a well-dressed individual about forty, with shrewd eyes and a certain humorous twist of the mouth. He wasn’t a literary man, I knew that, nor was he in commerce. I judged him to be a barrister, and I went straight up and opened my case.
“You’ve got a lot of money,” I said, brightly.
He stopped, as I knew he would stop, curious to see what would happen.
“Well,” he said, “what about it, if I have?”
“I want some breakfast,” I said calmly.
“Tell me why I should buy you any?”
“Because I have brains,” I said, desperately. The imaginary odour of frizzled bacon fired my will.
“If you have brains,” he answered, “use them to get some breakfast with.”
“I have,” I retorted, quickly. “I have chosen you.”
And at that he smiled, and then began to laugh, and I knew the day was won. For a man may resist tears, harden his heart to importunity, turn aside invective, but there is no son of Adam, who, can deny a woman when she makes him laugh.
He surrendered at discretion, took me to the nearest tea shop and ordered bacon, eggs, toast and hot coffee. We talked over the meal, and I told him how hard I found it to get regular employment without a reference. He brushed that aside, but was quite interested when I explained the psychology of selling matches. He gave me a shilling as we parted, and I somehow felt it due to him that I should make another attempt to get engaged as a cook. I went to the Holborn Public Library and studied the advertisement column, and found that a cook, “good plain,” was wanted in Kensington. I spent some of my few pence on the fare, and called at a house near the High Street. There was nothing doing. The fatal lack of character stood like a flaming sword between me and security. I fought pretty hard, and offered to come for a day on trial, but the suggestion was received coldly. I had wanted to prove that a woman without a reference cannot get employment in a recognised vocation; and prove it I did. I went from that
