“Always like this?” cried Deborah, in amazement. “Why, how can people live in it?”
“They not only live in it, they like it.”
“Well, then, now I can understand all one reads about the corrupting influences of a great city. For if people can grow to like this atmosphere better than the pure air, it is not astonishing that they can learn to like evil ways better than good ones.”
Mrs. Pennant did not answer; she was too cross. They drove on in silence, Deborah filled with ever-increasing amazement and disgust. When at length the cab drew up at an old-fashioned and dingy house in St. Martin’s-lane, on the right hand side as you go down towards the church, she, however, could not suppress a low cry of horror.
“Oh, mamma,” she cried, “surely poor Rees doesn’t live here?”
“Don’t be silly, Deborah, crying out like some gawky country cousin. Of course, London is not like Carstow.”
They got out, and going up four much-worn stone steps, rang the bell, and were admitted by an old woman, who said that she didn’t know whether Mr. Pennant had come home yet, but she would see. She turned and walked to the end of the hall, which was narrow, dingy, and dark. Knocking at a door on the right, she opened it without waiting for an answer and announced:
“Some ladies to see you, sir.”
“Show them in,” said a voice which neither recognised.
Mrs. Pennant and Deborah traversed the passage slowly, both prepared for some great change in Rees. Therefore, at the first moment of meeting, they were both inclined to think the alteration in him less great than it really was. The room was small and very dark, for the little daylight that filtered through the fog was obscured by the backs of the neighboring houses. The furniture was of the dingy kind peculiar to the back rooms of London lodging-houses, and the fire which burned in the small grate gave forth plenty of smoke, but little flame and less heat.