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appreciate the civic nature of her interest. Miss Myrtle would never have quailed at such a reservation, of course, but Leda had found that what seemed principled and self-evident in South Street was not always so clearly appropriate in Crucifix Lane or Oatmeal Yard or the Maze.
    When she passed the wrought-iron door of the police station at the corner, she stopped to bid the night-inspector a good evening. But it was before her usual time, so Inspector Ruby had not come in yet. She left her compliments with a young policeman who touched his helmet very respectfully with his big hand and promised to convey them.
    She turned down a street only an alley's width, with plastered houses as ancient as Queen Elizabeth overhanging the muddy pavement. She closed her mind to it and occupied herself with thoughts of a sleek brand-new typing machine, managing to penetrate as far as the foot of the lodging-house stairs before Mrs. Dawkins shambled out of her tiny parlor. The landlady stood in a thread of anemic light that fell across the banister and the first three stairs, the only illumination in the murky depths of the hall.
    "Now then, what's this?" She propped a meaty elbow against the parlor door frame and looked at Leda with eyes pallid blue and protuberant, the slow, mechanical blink of a baby-doll. "Come in early, miss?" She bobbed her curly head as she spoke, her cheeks shaking. Mrs. Dawkins was always deferential toward Leda, but she had a way of looking out one side of her eyes when she cast them down that was most unpleasant.
    "Yes," Leda said. "A bit early." She started up the stairs.
    "Have ye left your basket?" Mrs. Dawkins asked. "Your basket w' the pretty dresses? Can Jem Smollett help you carry it up, miss?"
    Leda stopped and turned. "I'm sure he could, if I had brought it. But I have not. Good evening."
    "No basket!" The landlady's voice had a sharp warble. "They'll not have turned you off, then, eh?"
    Leda put her foot on the next step and turned onto the landing. "Of course not, Mrs. Dawkins. Some of us have been given an afternoon to rest, before the greatest rush is anticipated. Good evening to you," she repeated, and hurried on up the stairs with the landlady's quavering mumble following her.
    That would not do at all. Mrs. Dawkins knew her boarders—no doubt any small change in habit was cause for suspicion of a change in circumstances. Leda lifted her skirt and bit her lip, turning the last landing onto the narrowest set of stairs. At the top, she unlocked her own door and slipped inside, closing it behind her.
    The little whitewashed garret seemed almost homey when she thought of what might become of her if Mrs. Dawkins put her out. Without employment, the only shelter she could obtain would be at one of those horrid boardinghouses, where the inmates were packed together in common rooms and her small savings would vanish at fourpence a night with a bed, and threepence without.
    She had a desperate thought of laying her circumstances before the South Street ladies, but Miss Myrtle would never have sunk so low as to beg for assistance, by word or by deed. To make a civil morning call and mention that she now found it convenient to seek a more suitable position—that was acceptable. To admit that she was close to living in the street—no, she could not. She would not.
    She opened the leaded-glass casement to let some of the stuffy closeness leave the room. The odor of vinegar lay heavy in the neighborhood, mingling with the humid scents rising off the canal. It wasn't even dark, but she changed into her nightclothes and lay down, ignoring the complaint that was beginning to grow in her middle. One cucumber sandwich did not stick long to the ribs, but she was tired and feeling exceptionally impoverished, and a creeping sense of panic at what she had done. Sleep seemed so blissfully mindless.
    As she closed her eyes, she thought of Lady Catherine and her mother, and how they should always wear jewel-tones to