"I must confess it hasn't struck me as queer."
"You know this King's Cross Road?" Mrs. Arb proceeded with increased ardour. "You know it? You've walked all along it?"
"Yes."
"So have I. Oh! I've looked about me. Is there a single theatre in it? Is there one music-hall? Is there one dance-hall? Is there one picture theatre? Is there one nice little restaurant? Or a tea-shop where a nice person could go if she'd a mind?... And yet it's a very important street; it's full of people all day. And you can walk for miles round here and see nothing. And the dirt and untidiness! Well, I thought Fulham was dirty. Now look at this Riceyman Square place, up behind those funny steps! I walked through there. And I lay there isn't one house in it—not one—without a broken window! The fact is, the people about here don't want things nice and kept.... I'm not meaning you—certainly not! But people in general. And they don't want anything fresh, either. They only want all the nasty old things they've always had, same as pigs. And yet I must say I admire pigs, in a way. Oh, dear!" She laughed, as if at herself, a tinkling laugh, and looked down, with her steady agreeable hand still on the door.
Twice before she had looked down. It was more than coyness, better than coyness, more genuinely exciting. When she laughed her face crinkled up very pleasantly. She had energy. All the time her body made little movements. Her glance varied, scintillating, darkling. Her tone ceaselessly varied. And she had authority. She was a masterful woman, but masterful in a broad-minded, genial manner. She was experienced, and had learnt from experience. She must be over forty.... And still, somehow girlish! Best of all, she was original; she had a point of view. She could see. Mr. Earlforward hated Clerkenwell to be damned. Yet he liked her to damn it. ... And how natural she was, dignified, but not ceremonious, willing to be friends at once! He repeated to himself that from the first sight of her he had known her to be a highly remarkable creature.
"I brought the book along," he said, prudently avoiding argument. She took it amiably from him, and out of politeness inspected it again.
"You shall have it for ninepence. And you might be needing it after all, you know."
With her face still bent towards "Snacks and Titbits" she raised her eyes to his eyes—it seemed roguishly.
"I might! I might!" She shut the book with a smart snap. "But I won't go beyond sixpence, thank you all the same. And not as I don't think it's very kind of you to bring it over."
What a woman! What a woman! She was rapidly becoming the most brilliant, attractive, competent, and comfortable woman on earth; and Mr. Earlforward was rapidly becoming a hero, a knight, a madman capable of sublime deeds. He felt an heroical impulse such as he had never felt. He fought it, and was beaten.