Left to herself, Joan pulled the bell and waited. Nobody came, so she pulled it again, and yet a third time; after which she discovered that it was broken, and there being no knocker, was reduced to rapping on the door with the handle of her umbrella. Presently it was opened with great violence, and a sour-faced slattern with a red nose asked shrilly,—
“Who the dickens are you, that you come a-banging of the door to bits? This ain’t the Al’ambra, my fine miss. Don’t you make no mistake.”
“My name is Haste,” said Joan humbly, “and I have come here to lodge.”
“Then you’d better haste out of this, for you won’t lodge here.” And the vixen prepared to slam the door.
“Does not Mrs. Thomas live here?” asked Joan desperately.
“No, she don’t. Mrs. Thomas was sold up three days ago, and you’ll find her in the Marylebone Workhouse, I believe. I am the caretaker. Now take that box off those steps, and cut it sharp, or I’ll send for the policeman.” And before Joan could say another word the door was shut in her face.
She turned round in despair. Where was she to go, and what could she do in this horrible place? By now a crowd had collected about her, composed largely of dirty children and dreadful blear-eyed men in very wide-skirted tattered coats, who made audible remarks about her personal appearance.
“Now then,” screamed the vixen from the area, “will you take thim things off the steps?”
Thus adjured, Joan made a desperate effort to lift the box, but she was weak with agitation and could not stir it.
“Carry yer things for yer, miss?” said one creature in a raucous whisper. “Don’t you mind him, miss,” put in another; “he’s a blooming area sneak, he is. You give ’em me.” “Hullo, Molly, does your mother know you’re out?” asked a painted-faced slut, who evidently had taken more to drink than was good for her; and so forth.