n the
charm. She could no longer see the vision.

CHAPTER XXI

THE days passed away horribly long. Victoria was now an automaton; she
no longer felt much of sorrow or of joy. Her home life had been reduced
to a minimum, for she could no longer afford the luxury of 'chambers in
the West End' as Betty put it. She had moved to Finsbury; where she had
found a large attic for three shillings a week, in a house which had
fallen from the state of mansion for a City merchant to that of tenement
dwelling. For the first time since she returned to London she had
furnished her own room. She had bought out the former tenant for one
pound. For this sum she had entered into possession of an iron bedstead
with a straw mattress, a thick horse cloth, an iron washstand supplied
with a blue basin and a white mug, an old armchair and red curtains. She
had no sheets, which meant discomfort but saved washing. A chair had
cost her two shillings; she needed no cupboard as there was one in the
wall; in lieu of a chest of drawers she had her trunk; her few books
were stacked on a shelf made out of the side of a packing case and
erected by herself. She got water from the landing every morning except
when the taps were frozen. There was no fireplace in the attic, but in
the present state of Victoria's income this did not matter much.

Every morning she rose at seven, washed, dressed. As time went on she
ceased to dust and sweep every morning. First she postponed the work to
the evening, then to the week end. On Sundays she breakfasted off a
stale loaf bought among the roar of Farrington Street the previous
evening. A little later she introduced a spirit lamp for tea; it was a
revolution, even though she could never muster enough energy to bring in
milk.

After the first flush of possession, the horrible gloom of winter had
engulfed her. Sometimes she sat and froze in the attic, and, in despair,
went to bed after vainly trying to read Shakespeare by the light of a
candle: he did not interest her much. At other times the roaring
streets, the flares in the brown fog, the trams hurtling through the
air, their headlights blazing, had frightened her back to her home. On
Sundays, after luxuriating in bed until ten, she usually went to meet
Betty who lived in a club in Soho. Together they would walk in the
parks, or the squares, wherever grass grew. At one o'clock Betty would
introduce her as a guest at her club and feast her for eightpence on