The day’s routine did not vary greatly. She breakfasted at a quarter to eight, and if the weather was fine she walked a part or even the whole of the way to Miss Champion’s, following Upper Street and Pentonville Road, and so through Bloomsbury, where she picked up Kate Duveen. If it was wet she trammed, but she detested the crush for a seat, being a sensitive individualist with a hatred of crowds, however small. Some days she spent most of her time in the Museum reading-room, making notes and drawings which she elaborated afterwards at her desk at Miss Champion’s. If she had nothing but illustrating to do or plates to paint she spent all the day at the office. They were given an hour for lunch, and Eve and Kate Duveen lunched together, getting some variety by patronising Lyons, the Aerated Bread Company, and the Express Dairy in turn. After these very light lunches, and much more solid conversations, came four or five hours more work, with half an hour’s interval for tea. Eve reached Bosnia Road about half past six, often glad to walk the whole way back after the long sedentary hours. At seven she had meat tea, the meat being represented by an egg, or three sardines, or two slices of the very smallest tongue that was sold. Her landlady was genteel, florid, and affable, with that honeyed affability that is one of the surest signs of the humbug. She was a widow, and the possessor of a small pension. Her one child, a gawk of a youth, who was an under-clerk somewhere in the City, had nothing to recommend him. He was a ripening “nut,” and advertised the fact by wearing an enormous collar, a green plush Homburg hat, a grey suit, and brown boots on the Sabbath. Some time ago he had bought a banjo, but when Eve came to Bosnia Road, his vamping was as discordant and stuttering as it could be. He had a voice, and a conviction that he was a comedian, and he could be heard exclaiming, “Put me among the Girls,” a song that always moved Eve to an angry disgust. Now and again he met her on the stairs, but any egregious oglings on his part were blighted before they were born. “She’s a suffragette! I know ’em.” That was what he said to his mother. Had he been put among such girls, his little, vain Georgy Porgy of a soul would have been mute and awed.