"I ain’t ’ad no borders about brekfus for ’The Pitcsher Gallery,’ Miss," quoth Arabella in a rather high and mighty voice. "But I’ll get the tea. It ain’t all beer and skittles ’ere of a mornin’, I kin tell yer, wiv hall the bells in the ’ouse a-ringin’ at onct, the missus in ’er bed, and ole Flatfeet on the warpath in the kitching." When the door had closed Isla sat down on the front of her bed and laughed till the tears rolled down her cheeks. The dreariness of the place in which she sat, the dead ashes on the cold hearth, the indescribable lack of the comforts--even of the decencies--of life appalled her. Yet just in such conditions, and in others infinitely worse, must thousands of Londoners awake to the duty of each new day. She wondered that the multitude had any heart for the day’s work. She could not start to clean her room or light a fire, and she had been reared in the belief that a bed required a thorough airing before it could be made. After she had partaken of her meagre breakfast therefore she opened the window and, donning her mackintosh and heavy boots, prepared to sally forth. Even the streets would be preferable to her present surroundings. She decided not to go up to see Agnes, who probably felt the situation more acutely than she herself did. Perhaps, after all, it might be better, if it was not indeed absolutely necessary, that she should find some other lodging in a smaller house, where she could have a sitting-room and a bedroom. The prospect of unlimited hours spent in "The Pictur Gallery" was a little dismaying. The rain was falling heavily when she left the house, but the clean, sharp patter on the pavements, somehow, cheered her. It was clean, it was wholesome, it would help to wash away some of the impurity from the streets. The rain, rolling in over the hills upon the Moor of Creagh and sweeping down Glenogle--how often had she welcomed its pure sting on her cheek and revelled in it! But here all was depressing, dark, dismal, and soul-crushing. In such mood did Isla arrive at the address in Westbourne Terrace, which, in conjunction with three others, she had written on a small piece of paper and placed in her purse. A man-servant, in a blue coat with brass buttons and a striped waistcoat, opened the door and stood, obligingly waiting to take her message. "I have called in reference to the advertisement in the ’Morning Post’ this morning. Please, can I see the lady of the house?" The man looked doubtful, but said politely in imperfect English with a very German accent that if she would come in and sit down in the hall he would inquire. At the moment the door of the breakfast-room at the end of the hall was opened and a lady in a very elaborate morning robe much trimmed with lace and with two black-and-white Japanese spaniels in her arms, looked out. "Who is that, Fritz?" she asked in a high and rather fretful voice. "Pleas’m, a young lady about the advertisement in the paper."