'What a hateful road!' Thyme thought. 'What dull, ugly, common-looking
faces all the people seem to have in London! as if they didn't care for
anything but just to get through their day somehow. I've only seen two
really pretty faces!'

The cab stopped before a small tobacconist's on the south side of the
road.

'Have I got to live here?' thought Thyme.

Through the open door a narrow passage led to a narrow staircase
covered with oilcloth. She raised her bicycle and wheeled it in. A
Jewish-looking youth emerging from the shop accosted her.

"Your gentleman friend says you are to stay in your rooms, please, until
he comes."

His warm red-brown eyes dwelt on her lovingly. "Shall I take your
luggage up, miss?"

"Thank you; I can manage."

"It's the first floor," said the young man.

The little rooms which Thyme entered were stuffy, clean, and neat.
Putting her trunk down in her bedroom, which looked out on a bare yard,
she went into the sitting-room and threw the window up. Down below the
cabman and tobacconist were engaged in conversation. Thyme caught the
expression on their faces--a sort of leering curiosity.