of the churchyard
where the dead jostle and grab land from one another were without their
peculiar charm. It was not until the cab crossed the Edgware Road that
Victoria realised with a start that, though the world was born again,
she did not share its good fortune. Edgware Road had dragged her down to
the old level; a horrible familiarity, half pleasurable, half fearful,
overwhelmed her. This street, which she had so often paced carrying a
heart that grew heavier with every step, had never led her to anything
but loneliness, to the cold emptiness of her room. Her mood had changed.
She saw nothing now but tawdry stationer's shops, meretricious jewellery
and, worse still, the sickening plenty of its monster stores of clothing
and food. The road had seized her and was carrying her away towards its
summit, where the hill melts into the skies between the houses that grow
lower as far as the eye can see.

Victoria closed her eyes. She was in the grip once more; the wheels of
the machine were not moving yet but she could feel the vibration as it
got up steam. In a little the flywheel would slowly revolve and then she
would be caught and ground up. Yes, ground up, cried the Edgware Road,
like thousands of others as good as you, ground into little bits to make
roadmetal of, yes, ground, ground fine.

The cab stopped suddenly. Victoria opened her eyes. Yes, this was
Portsea Place. She got out. It had not changed. The curtains of the
house opposite were as dirty as ever. The landlady from the corner was
standing just under the archway, dressed as usual in an expansive pink
blouse in which her flowing contours rose and fell. She interrupted the
voluble comments on the weather which she was addressing to the little
faded colleague, dressed in equally faded black, to stare at the
newcomer.

'There ain't no more room at Bell's,' she remarked.

'She is very fortunate,' said the faded little woman. 'Dear me, dear me.
It's a cruel world.'

'Them lidies' maids allus ketches on,' said the large woman savagely.
'Tell yer wot, though, p'raps they wouldn't if they was to see Bell's
kitching. Oh, Lor'! There ain't no black-beetles. I don't think.'

The little faded woman looked longingly at Victoria standing on the
steps. A loafer sprung from thin air as is the way of his kind and leant
against the area railings, touching his cap whenever he caught
Victoria's eye, indicating at times the box on the roof of the cab. From
the silent hou