Page 669 - of-human-bondage-

thought of the stir he would make.
One day Philip went to dine by arrangement at the
wretched eating-house at which Cronshaw insisted on tak-
ing his meals, but Cronshaw did not appear. Philip learned
that he had not been there for three days. He got himself
something to eat and went round to the address from which
Cronshaw had first written to him. He had some difficulty
in finding Hyde Street. It was a street of dingy houses hud-
dled together; many of the windows had been broken and
were clumsily repaired with strips of French newspaper; the
doors had not been painted for years; there were shabby lit-
tle shops on the ground floor, laundries, cobblers, stationers.
Ragged children played in the road, and an old barrel-organ
was grinding out a vulgar tune. Philip knocked at the door
of Cronshaw’s house (there was a shop of cheap sweetstuffs
at the bottom), and it was opened by an elderly Frenchwom-
an in a dirty apron. Philip asked her if Cronshaw was in.
‘Ah, yes, there is an Englishman who lives at the top, at
the back. I don’t know if he’s in. If you want him you had
better go up and see.’
The staircase was lit by one jet of gas. There was a re-
volting odour in the house. When Philip was passing up a
woman came out of a room on the first floor, looked at him
suspiciously, but made no remark. There were three doors
on the top landing. Philip knocked at one, and knocked
again; there was no reply; he tried the handle, but the door
was locked. He knocked at another door, got no answer, and
tried the door again. It opened. The room was dark.
‘Who’s that?’

Of Human Bondage