She had run upstairs from Mr. Stone's room, and now walked fast, lest that instinct, the most physical, perhaps, of all—awakened by sights and sounds, and requiring constant nourishment—should lose its force.
Rapidly, then, she made her way to the grey street in Bayswater where Cecilia had told her that the girl now lived.
The tall, gaunt landlady admitted her.
“Have you a Miss Barton lodging here?” Bianca asked.
“Yes,” said the landlady, “but I think she's out.”
She looked into the little model's room.
“Yes,” she said; “she's out; but if you'd like to leave a note you could write in here. If you're looking for a model, she wants work, I believe.”
That modern faculty of pressing on an aching nerve was assuredly not lacking to Bianca. To enter the girl's room was jabbing at the nerve indeed.
She looked round her. The mental vacuity of that little room! There was not one single thing—with the exception of a torn copy of Tit-Bits—which suggested that a mind of any sort lived there. For all that, perhaps because of that, it was neat enough.
“Yes,” said the landlady, “she keeps her room tidy. Of course, she's a country girl—comes from down my way.” She said this with a dry twist of her grim, but not unkindly, features. “If it weren't for that,” she went on, “I don't think I should care to let to one of her profession.”