"I want a room at once."
"Well, I can't say what she's got vacant. We've got—let me see—a sitting-room, and one, two, three bedrooms."
"Would you mind telling me what you pay for that?"
"Well, we're charged a pound a week for our lot, and that's inclusive, coals and light and everything. I'll give you the address. You can't better it, I'll take my oath."
He scribbled an address, and Evarne again sought the outer air. At the corner of the street was the girl with the plume, still waiting, who inquired after her success.
Evarne showed her the slip of paper.
"It's the Vauxhall Bridge Road. Is that near by?" she asked.
"Oh yes; just cross over and go straight ahead, past that clock."
But to get across this crowded thoroughfare was an undertaking that Evarne, with her shaken nerves, was scarcely capable of managing. Again and again she set out only to return, startled and alarmed, to the pavement. Undue timidity was so new to her that her pretty brow deepened into wrinkles. It was dreadful that stress of mental suffering should have reduced her to this foolishly weak and incapable condition of mind and body.
The girl with the plume once more came to the rescue.