I hung on to a strap all the way to Charing Cross, hating everything. That letter seemed to have laid open all my nerves; they were jarred by the jostling passengers, by the conductor's raucous shouts, by the very advertisements of patent medicines and boot polish on the Tube walls, by the steps, the lift, in fact, everything to do with the loathsome journey.
At the office I got a black look from my chief, Mr. Winter, and a stinging comment on my lateness. I'd had them before, but then I'd scarcely noticed them. Now the daily round seemed unbearable.
When I had Harry to look forward to in the evening, it scarcely mattered how my day was spent. But now—ye gods! I suddenly found everything rankling—the look of the rabbit-warren's dingy corridors and annexes, the click of the typewriters, the whir of the telephone bells, and the Cockney accents of some of the workers!
And worst of all was the inevitable office smell, made up of so many horrors. I put them in their order of unpleasantness:—
The hot iron of the water pipes.
Ink.
Dust.
Common yellow soap.
The sink.
Stale office towels.