The women, on the other hand, looked at Gypo with disfavour. There were ten of them present. Some of them were almost nude and in various stages of intoxication, sitting on the men’s knees, with glasses in their hands and cigarettes in their mouths. Others sat solemnly on their chairs dressed for the street, as if they had just dropped in on their way somewhere. Their hard faces set in a scowl when they saw Gypo. He was dressed like a workman. Therefore he had no money. Therefore they scowled at him. This was an “upper-class” brothel. All the women here were “ladies.” Their “class” instincts were aroused by his wretched clothes and his uncouth features. One woman alone took no notice of him whatsoever. She sat in a corner, reading a newspaper, with her legs crossed, a cigarette between her lips, a fashionable short fur coat wrapped around her. Gypo’s eyes wandered around the room until they rested on her. There they remained. “What d’ye want?” cried a harsh voice behind him. Gypo turned. The proprietress of the brothel was standing beside the door. Her left hand was on her breast fingering a little silver crucifix that was suspended from her neck by a black velvet cord. Her right hand rested on the door, a short, white, fat hand, as if she were waiting until Gypo went out so as to shut the door again. She was a small, fat woman of middle age, with a huge head of devilishly black hair, arranged in towering fashion, with a glittering black comb stuck in the rear of the pile. Her hair was the last remains of her beauty. The remainder of her head had been coarsened by the odious nature of her pursuits. Her face was blotched, wrinkled and pale. Her eyes were yellow, hard, sunken and bloodshot. Her mouth was drawn together as if some clumsy fellow had tried to stitch the lips and made a bad job of it. She was dressed in a blue skirt and a white blouse. The blouse sleeves were rolled almost up to her shoulders showing a tremendously fat pair of arms. They called her Aunt Betty and she was known all over the district for her cunning, her meanness and the peculiar habit she had, perhaps in the middle of a conversation, of suddenly uttering a coarse expression, grasping her breasts and staring about her wild-eyed, as if she were afraid of some dread spectre being in pursuit of her. Gypo did not know her, because her place was fashionable, frequented only by well-to-do people, business men, army officers and students who had money to spend. Gypo only knew the cheaper brothels, places that were used as “friendly houses” by revolutionaries, criminals and working men. On any other night he would never think of entering the place, no more than a man in overalls would think of taking a seat in the stalls of a London theatre. But to-night he had transcended himself. He looked at Aunt Betty arrogantly with his lower lip hanging.