Opening this, the drab said mechanically:
"Walk insoide. What nime?"
"Miss Keeves. I've come from Miss Meakin."
Mavis walked inside, to find herself in a smallish room, the walls of which were decorated with rows of hooks, beneath each of which was a number printed in large type. There were a cracked toilette glass, a few rickety chairs, a heavy smell of stale toilet powder, and little else. A few moments later, a little, shrivelled-up, elderly woman walked into the room with a slight hobble. Mavis noticed her narrow, stooping shoulders, which, although the weather was warm, were covered by a shawl; her long upper lip; her snub nose; also that she wore her right arm in a sling.
"Was you waiting to see Mr Poulter particular?" she asked.
"I was rather."
"'E's 'avin' 'is tea, and—and you know what these artists are at meal-time," said the little woman confidentially.
"I'm in no hurry. I can easily wait," said Mavis.
"Was you come about 'privates'?" asked the little woman wistfully.
"Privates?"