“It’s a nice fresh room,” she said, throwing open a French window that disclosed a small patch of black earth that had once been covered with grass but was now untenanted by any living organisms but cats and groundsel. “I like them to keep the window open. It takes away the smell of the gentlemen’s disinfectant. Not but what it’s clean, I dare say.” Edwin and Boyce would have assented in any case if it were only to release the composite lodging-house smell that penetrated the room from the adjoining “domestic offices,” and Mrs. Meadows’s kitchen where, it would be imagined, turnip-tops simmered day and night upon a gas-ring. “Then there’s a pianoforte,” she said, hesitating at the dusty portiere. “I find that professionals like a pianoforte. It’s cheery like.” In a little while it became apparent that the professionals liked a pianoforte, in every one of the thirty odd houses within earshot, even if they could not play one. From the hour of midday, when they rose, until six o’clock, when they betook themselves to their various theatres, the pianos of Easy Row were never silent. “It’s no good trying to do any work in this place,” said Edwin. “There won’t be any time, anyway,” said Boyce. “You wait till the fun begins.” They lunched together on steak-and-kidney pudding and turnip-tops with a brand of bottled beer in which Mrs. Meadows showed an admirable taste, and in the early afternoon the fun began. From the beginning, Fate had decreed a complication by deciding that Mrs. Hadley, back of number four, court sixteen, Granby Street, and Mrs. Higgins over number fifty-four Rea Barn Lane, should conspire to increase the population of North Bromwich at the same moment. Mr. Hadley and Mr. Higgins achieved a dead heat, arriving on the doorstep together in a dripping perspiration with messages of an equal urgency. “This is rather rotten,” said Boyce. “Which of these ladies will you take?” “I’ll have Mrs. Higgins,” said Edwin. “I suppose the bag’s all right?” The bag was right enough, though it contained very little that could do any harm, and smelt abominably of Lysol. Mr. Higgins, still out of breath, with beads of sweat sweeping an alluvium of metal dust into the furrows of his cheeks, carried the bag for Edwin. For all his exhaustion, Mr. Higgins wanted to run, and Edwin, walking with long strides beside him, was in danger of losing his dignity by being swept into the same degree of panic. The reflection that this would betray his inexperience held him back. “The nurse said very urgent, doctor,” Mr. Higgins panted. “Yes . . . yes. You mustn’t excite yourself. It’ll be all right.” “I suppose,” said Mr. Higgins doubtfully, “you’re well up in these sort of cases, doctor? I expect you’ve seen a lot of them?” Edwin wished he had been able to grow a moustache for the occasion. “Hundreds,” he said.