“I’m not saying it isn’t cheap and healthy and social,” said Susan, “and if it isn’t too strict I expect you’ll get plenty of girls to come to it, but at the best it’s an Institution, Lady Harman. It’s going to be an Institution. That’s what it’s going to be.”
She held the front elevation of the Bloomsbury Hostel in her hand and reflected.
“Of course for my part, I’d rather lodge with nice struggling believing Christian people anywhere than go into a place like that. It’s the feeling of freedom, of being yourself and on your own. Even if the water wasn’t laid on and I had to fetch it myself.... If girls were paid properly there wouldn’t be any need of such places, none at all. It’s the poverty makes ’em what they are.... And after all, somebody’s got to lose the lodgers if this place gets them. Suppose this sort of thing grows up all over the place, it’ll just be the story of the little bakers and little grocers and all those people over again. Why in London there are thousands of people just keep a home together by letting two or three rooms or boarding someone—and it stands to reason, they’ll have to take less or lose the lodgers if this kind of thing’s going to be done. Nobody isn’t going to build a Hostel for them.”
“No,” said Lady Harman, “I never thought of them.”
“Lots of ’em haven’t anything in the world but their bits of furniture and their lease and there they are stuck and tied. There’s Aunt Hannah, Father’s sister, she’s like that. Sleeps in the basement and works and slaves, and often I’ve had to lend her ten shillings to pay the rent with, through her not being full. This sort of place isn’t going to do much good to her.”
Lady Harman surveyed the plan rather blankly. “I suppose it isn’t.”
“And then if you manage this sort of place easy and attractive, it’s going to draw girls away from their homes. There’s girls like Alice who’d do anything to get a bit of extra money to put on their backs and seem to think of nothing but chattering and laughing and going about. Such a place like this would be fine fun for Alice; in when she liked and out when she liked, and none of us to ask her questions. She’d be just the sort to go, and mother, who’s had the upbringing of her, how’s she to make up for Alice’s ten shillings what she pays in every week? There’s lots like Alice. She’s not bad isn’t Alice, she’s a good girl and a good-hearted girl; I will say that for her, but she’s shallow, say what you like she’s shallow, she’s got no thought and she’s wild for pleasure, and sometimes it seems to me that that’s as bad as being bad for all the good it does to anyone else in the world, and so I tell her. But of course she hasn’t seen things as I’ve seen them and doesn’t feel as I do about all these things....”
Thus Susan.
Her discourse so puzzled Lady Harman that she bethought herself of Mr. Brumley and called in his only too readily accorded advice. She asked him to tea on a day when she knew unofficially that Sir Isaac would be away, she showed him the plans and sketched their probable development. Then with that charming confidence of hers in his knowledge and ability she put her doubts and fears before him. What did he really think of these places? What did he think of Susan Burnet’s idea of ruined lodging-house keepers? “I used to think our stores were good things,” she said. “Is this likely to be a good thing at all?”
Mr. Brumley said “Um” a great number of times and realized that he was a humbug. He fenced with her and affected sagacity for a time and suddenly he threw down his defences and confessed he knew as little of the business as she did. “But I see it is a complex question and—it’s an interesting one too. May I enquire into it for you? I think I might be able to hunt up a few particulars....”