On certain occasions a fixed programme was arranged and carried out by friends from the West End, but this happened to be an "off night," when the members did pretty much as they pleased, my hostess leaving them to their own devices entirely, and not interfering unless their spirits threatened to get too boisterous. As she truly said: "You cannot expect the same manners and etiquette here that you find among Lady Clara Vere de Vere and her friends at their aristocratic club near Grosvenor Square, but my girls have a great sense of honour and chivalry, and a word from me is generally sufficient." The club-room was at the back of a large, old-fashioned house which at one time, long, long ago, stood in its own extensive grounds in the midst of a peaceful, rural neighbourhood. Now it was hemmed in on all sides by streets and houses teeming with life, and the only relic of its former grandeur left was a tiny piece of ground in front. Still, a certain air of aristocratic calm hung about it, and after my recent long drive through the hot, crowded streets, I breathed a sigh of relief when the front door closed behind me and I found myself in the spacious entrance-hall. I followed the neat maid-servant (herself an East Ender born and bred) along this out into a little paved yard, which we crossed, and up a flight of break-neck stairs into the club-room. It was a long, narrow apartment, with a low platform at one end, and the wooden walls were hung with gay-coloured bunting interspersed with various flags, a few pictures from Christmas numbers, and some framed texts. Odd strips of carpet, matting and rugs, covered the floor and on these stood small tables laden with magazines, books and games, while little chairs stood here and there not in stiff rows but in conversational attitudes, so to speak. A fixed bench ran all round the walls, a piano (rather the worse for wear inside and out) stood in one corner of the platform, and a few plants in pots disguised by crinkled paper completed the furniture. Judging from the noise that greeted me when I entered, the lungs of Belinda Ann and her friends were in fairly good condition, and I felt distinctly alarmed as I advanced, for they all turned and stared at me with one consent, making frank and audible remarks on my personal appearance and dress. The room was crowded with girls, tall and short, dark and fair, fat and thin, very few of whom were playing games or reading, but all of whom were chattering as fast as their tongues would let them. I was relieved when the lady who had invited me stepped forward to shake hands and at once piloted me up the room (for she knew I wanted to learn all I could about my East End sisters) whispering as she went, "I'm going to introduce Belinda Ann to you. You'll find out all you want to know from her," and next minute I found myself deposited next a girl who surveyed me with a mixture of good-humoured contempt and watchful suspicion.