As the proud possessor of a few shillings, I wasn’t afraid of the charge, and I walked up, bold as brass, to the green door and gave the regulation two knocks.

By this time it was dark, and in the dimness of the street, broken by one remote lamp, I hoped my shabbiness would pass unnoticed. But from the lynx eyes of the woman in the white starched apron, and immaculate black dress, there was no escape. One look was quite enough. Before I had time to frame my request I was answered.

“I haven’t got a room,” she said. “No, I couldn’t possibly take you.”

She shut the door firmly, with precision, and I knew that I might beat my hands against it⁠—she would not reopen.