"They have to be written first."
"Of course. And to write striking stories you must have a cosy study. Do you think it is my comfort I am looking after? My dear old boy, you shall have the snuggest den in London."
"When they are written—-if they ever are"—I was tortured by a doubt whether my mind would be sufficiently at ease for literary work—"they may not find favor with the publishers."
"I will manage them, John. Don't meet troubles half way. There is a clever song—did you ever hear it?—'Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you.' That is what I call common sense."
The result was that she had her way. My one desire was for peace. Love held no place in my heart The utmost I could hope for was that I should not be plunged into disgrace.
I had very little to do with the new arrangements of the house. Finding that every suggestion I made was received with opposition, I became wearied with the whole affair, my share in which was limited to paying the bills. This exactly suited Barbara, who now and then rewarded me by declaring that she was having a delightful time. During these few weeks we lived in a furnished flat in Bloomsbury, and having nothing else to do, I spent the greater part of the day in the reading-room of the British Museum, for which I had held a ticket since I left my stepmother's house. Barbara and I would breakfast together in the morning, and make arrangements for a late dinner. Then we would separate; Barbara for West Kensington, accompanied by Annette, I for the British Museum, or for a lonely walk or ride. Once or twice a week, when the weather was fine, I would ride on the top of an omnibus to its terminus, and return to my starting-point by the same conveyance. My favorite ride was eastward, through Whitechapel, and occasionally I would alight in the centre of that wonderful thoroughfare—where a greater variety of the forms of human life can be met than in any other part of the modern Babylon—and plunge into the labyrinth of narrow streets and courts with which the district abounds. What made the deepest impression upon me in my wanderings thereabouts was the poverty of the residents and the immense number and the magnificence of the gin palaces, in the immediate vicinity of the most flourishing of which were usually congregated groups of wretched men, women and children—chiefly the latter during the midday hours of my visits—whose one idea of life and life's duties was drink. The subject had a fascination for me, and my heart sank as I noted the hideous degradation to which it brings its victims. The soddened, bestial faces, the shameless lasciviousness, the frightful language, the hags of forty who looked seventy, the young children with preternatural cunning stamped on their features, and from whose ready tongue familiar blasphemies proceeded; girl-mothers with exposed breasts putting glasses of gin to their babies' lips—these were horrible and common sights. I was standing watching such a scene in a narrow, squalid street, flanked at each corner by a gorgeous, shining palace of gin, when I noticed a policeman at my side. We entered into conversation, and I learned that he had placed himself near me as a protection.
"A famous thieves' quarter this, sir," he said; "I thought you mightn't know."
"Thank you for the warning," I replied; "the people are very poor; all the houses seem to be tumbling down."
"They belong to a big swell."
"Does he not come to inspect them?"