Kent Street, Paddington, was a shabby little place in the neighbourhood of the Edgware Road. The street itself ended in a _cul-de-sac,_ a recommendation to the lover of quiet, as of course no traffic could pass through it; but, probably on this account, it was the happy hunting ground of hundreds of dirty children, whose shrill voices echoed through it from dawn to dark, as they played and fought and screamed. The houses were tall, and covered with a dingy stucco, that here and there had peeled away in flakes, exposing patches of yellow brick; the doors were much in need of paint, some of the area railings were broken, and the window curtains for the most part presented the appearance of having been dried in a coal cellar. Indeed, the general squalor and the stuffy odours of the place filled Joan’s heart with dismay, for she had never before visited the poorer quarters of a large town. “Are you sure that this is Kent Street, Paddington?” she asked feebly of the driver. “If you don’t believe me, miss, look for yourself,” he answered gruffly, pointing to the corner of a house upon which the name was painted. “No. 13, you said, didn’t you? Well, here it is, and here’s your box,” he added, bumping her luggage down upon the steps; “and my fare is three-and-six, please.” Joan paid the three-and-sixpence, and the sulky cabman drove off, yelling at the children in front to get out of the way of his horse, and lashing with his whip at those who clung behind. Left to herself, Joan pulled the bell and waited. Nobody came, so she pulled it again, and yet a third time; after which she discovered that it was broken, and there being no knocker, was reduced to rapping on the door with the handle of her umbrella. Presently it was opened with great violence, and a sour-faced slattern with a red nose asked shrilly,— “Who the dickens are you, that you come a-banging of the door to bits? This ain’t the Al’ambra, my fine miss. Don’t you make no mistake.” “My name is Haste,” said Joan humbly, “and I have come here to lodge.” “Then you’d better haste out of this, for you won’t lodge here.” And the vixen prepared to slam the door. “Does not Mrs. Thomas live here?” asked Joan desperately. “No, she don’t. Mrs. Thomas was sold up three days ago, and you’ll find her in the Marylebone Workhouse, I believe. I am the caretaker. Now take that box off those steps, and cut it sharp, or I’ll send for the policeman.” And before Joan could say another word the door was shut in her face. She turned round in despair. Where was she to go, and what could she do in this horrible place? By now a crowd had collected about her, composed largely of dirty children and dreadful blear-eyed men in very wide-skirted tattered coats, who made audible remarks about her personal appearance. “Now then,” screamed the vixen from the area, “will you take thim things off the steps?”