They washed here because there were no washing facilities in their own homes--no stationary tubs, no hot or cold water, no suitable stoves to boil water on. It was equally true of ironing facilities, the director told me. They came from blocks away. Some women washed here for whole vicinities--the more industrious ones. And yet few came here at that--the more self-respecting stayed away. I learned this after a long conversation with my guide whose principal commentary was that they were a worthless lot and that you had to watch them all the time. “If you don’t,” he said in cockney English, “they won’t keep things clean. You can’t teach ’em scarcely how to do things right. Now and then they gets their hands caught.” He was referring to the washing-drums and the mangles. It was a long story, but all I got out of it was that this was a dreary world, that he was sick of his position but compelled to keep it for financial reasons, that he wanted as little as possible to do with the kind of cattle which he considered these people to be and that he would prefer to give it up. There was a touch of socialism in all this--trying to do for the masses--but I argued that perhaps under more general socialistic conditions things would be better; certainly, one would have to secure more considerate feelings on the part of directors and some public approval which would bring out the better elements. Perhaps under truer socialism, however, public wash-houses would not be necessary at all. Anyhow, the cry from here to Bond Street and the Houses of Parliament and the stately world of the Lords seemed infinitely far. What can society do with the sad, shadowy base on which it rests?