Charles was taking up his hat, to leave. "Why does she call you Dr. Brown?" he questioned, as the child ran off, and Frank was making ready to follow her and summoning Sam to the surgery.
"Half the people here call me so. It comes more readily to them than the new name. Good-bye, Charley. My love to all at home. Come again soon."
He sped away in the wake of the child. Charley turned the other way on his road homewards, carrying with him a very disparaging opinion of Lambeth.
In the small back sitting-room, underneath its two lighted gas-burners, stood Mrs. Frank Raynor, her heart beating faster than usual, her breath laboured. She felt partly frightened, partly confused by what she saw—by the aspect of the place she was brought to, as her new home. Frank had in a degree prepared her for it as they came along in the cab which brought them, Daisy's boxes piled upon it: but either he had done it insufficiently, or she had failed to realize his description of what he called the "humble den," for it came upon her with a shock. Both as Margaret St. Clare and as Margaret Raynor her personal experiences of dwelling-places had been pleasant and sunny.
The clock was striking ten when the cab had drawn up in Mark Street. She looked out to see why it stopped. She saw a narrow street, an inferior locality, small shops on either side. The one before which they had halted appeared to be a shop too: the door stood open, a gas-burner was alight within.
"Why are we stopping here, Frank?"
Frank, hastening to jump out, did not hear the question. He turned to help her.
"This is not the place?" she cried in doubt.
"Yes, this is it, Daisy."
He took her in, piloted her between the counters into the lighted side-room, and turned back to see to the luggage; leaving her utterly aghast, bewildered, and standing as still as a statue.