IN Hunter Street, Poppy put the finishing touches to her book of poems—as far as anything is ever finished until it appears in print. For it is certain that a writer will always find something new to do to a book as long as it is in MS. and within reach. But with Poppy, time pressed. She knew that shortly she would be wanting money. Moreover, she was horrified to reflect that after nearly four months in England she had nothing ready for publication but the poems, which had been the work of years. The thought came to her that if she could get this book accepted and published it would bring courage and inspiration back, and so spur her on that she would presently come to her own on a full tide. With this hope high in her, she sent the poems to a publisher whom she had read of in a literary journal as having a reputation for encouraging new authors on new subjects. The journal in question had omitted to mention that the new authors got very little out of the process beyond the encouragement, so poor Poppy went home gay of heart from posting her precious manuscript and essayed to start work on a batch of short stories. She had six of them in a skeleton condition; some of them consisting of no more than half a dozen startling phrases which were almost stories in themselves. These she intended to finish and get into the magazines.

Afterwards, she would complete her book and fire it off at the world. She knew she could write. All she needed was time—and peace of mind. Alas! Time began to press terribly; and peace of mind was anywhere but in a little fourth-floor room in Hunter Street. Inspiration appeared to have fled from so commonplace an atmosphere; and again the lurking shadows came out of their corners, and cast themselves across the pages she could not fill.

Her physical condition began to oppress her sorely, too, and she no longer wanted to work, for sitting at her desk caused headaches and dizziness. She longed for fresh air and bracing walks across grass and in the wind: for peaceful and beautiful scenes. But London was stifling in the grip of summer, and Bloomsbury was the hottest, most stifling place in it. The little room was suffocating, and out-of-doors the conditions were not much better. The streets gave up a white, afflicting dust; the pavements burned the feet. The best Poppy could do was to take a 'bus to some park where she could seek the quiet little unfrequented walks. Most of all, she loved the river when it swelled serene and full-bosomed from Chelsea onwards to Putney and the upper reaches. Along the Embankment how often she lingered before the beaten-copper lilies on Whistler's door, wishing dreamfully that she might see that master of paint and satire come forth, eye-glass perched in eye and cane in hand: but he never did—for her. From thence she would go to the statue of grey old Carlyle, who sits always in his little green garden watching Mother Thames flow by. On, past the Rossetti Fountain, and the house where the poet lived; and George Eliot's dull and drearsome residence. The Clock House charmed her, and she thought that if she could live in London she would choose to live there. Always she trembled a little when she passed Tite Street, thinking of the tragic genius who had made it famous and who was eating out his heart in Reading Gaol. She would never pass through the street, or look at No. 16, for fear her action might seem to savour of the cruel curiosity that lifts the cere-cloth from a dead face to seek upon it the marks that life has made and death been unable to erase.

At last she would be home again, braced and fresh from her long walk and her thoughts—until she sat to her table. Then slowly, but unfailingly, physical weariness would steal upon her, and mental depression that could not be shaken off.

The facts were to be faced at last that the six stories had sped no further ahead than the first few startling phrases; and that living with the utmost frugality she was down to the bare cold sum of ten pounds. She had long ago decided that she could make no further demand on Bramham, although he had urged her to do so if she found herself in need "before her ship came home" laden with the rewards of labour. She had received several kind and cheery letters from him, and answered them in the same spirit. Afterwards, she had let the correspondence lapse, for he wrote of a trip "home" before long, and she was afraid that he might seek her out.

She possessed no valuables to realise on, except the piece of Spanish lace which had been valued by a pawnbroker at thirty shillings. She had nothing, in fact, but her literary genius, which had gone back upon her in her hour of need. Terrible doubts of her powers assailed her now. Could she really write? Or was she merely a scribbling woman who might be successful as the editress of a woman's dress paper?

No! no! She denied it vehemently. She knew that she had the "restless heart and plotting brain" of the born writer; the cunning hand for the swift, smiting word; the fine eye for the terse or sonorous sentence; the tuned ear for the phrase that, like a chord of music, caused her exquisite pleasure. And she had knowledge of a magic land full of strange people and cruel ghosts and dear delights: and an imagination: and a vocabulary.

Of these things she was certain, when she was sane and calm; but she was not often sane and calm. No woman in her state ever is, even under the kindliest circumstances. Terrors, pleasures, fears, hopes—all are seen through the blurred, exaggerating glass of emotion.

The fear began to haunt her that she would not have enough money in hand to pay the expenses of her approaching illness. Sometimes she threw fear down and trampled on it; but other times it overcame her, swept her off her feet, engulfed her. Lest she should succumb entirely and ignobly she would wrench herself free, and, hastening out of doors, spend the remainder of the day wandering, resting sometimes in the Abbey, sometimes in the Brompton Oratory, seeking always a scene of peace and beauty.

One day her breezy landlady approached her, using all the tact and kindness she had command of, yet taking the girl cruelly unawares.

"My dear," she said pleasantly, "I hope you have found a place to go to when your time comes?"

Poppy sat paling and reddening before her, speechless with confusion.

"Ah, my dear, you needn't mind me," said Miss Drake kindly. "I've lived among 'theatricals' all my days, and I know what life is for a lovely girl like you—and I can see you're a good girl, too!"

Poppy got up and walked away to the window, so unnerved she knew not what to do or say. The kind woman's words threw her into a state of misery. She had no idea that her secret was shared by others yet.

"What I wanted to say, dear," continued Miss Drake, "was, that if you haven't made your arrangements, you ought to do so at once: because it would be very inconvenient if anything happened here. You can see yourself, dear, the kind of house this is, full of quiet business people, who wouldn't like things to be upset—a doctor coming and going on the stairs and a nurse and all that fuss, you know. So, much as I shall regret losing you——"

"Oh, don't say anything more, Miss Drake," Poppy interposed hastily. "Of course, I shall go—I am going quite soon; I haven't made up my mind where, but I will do so at once—I'll find out as soon as I can——"

"Yes, yes, of course—don't worry; don't upset yourself, dear—Butterton's Weekly is a good paper to find a nursing home in, if you haven't the address of any woman. But there! I expect you will get along all right."

The moment she had gone Poppy flew out to the nearest paper-shop, bought a Butterton's Weekly, and brought it home for deep study. It is an odious paper. When she had read a few of its advertisements, nausea seized her. Was she one of the army of these asking for secret and confidential homes? And were these homes offered by discreet nurses who could get the baby adopted if desired, meant for people like her? Again shame flushed her, flooded her. She crushed the paper into a ball, hid it, and went out for the whole day. But when she came in she uncrushed it, and read in it again with dull eyes.

One little shabby advertisement drew her at last. The address it gave was a little mean street in Westminster. But the advertiser with great subtlety, and doubtless at the cost of extra pence, had added the magic words, "Near Westminster Abbey."

Those little words redeemed the whole of the wretched sordid rag for Poppy. Her soul lifted up its head once more. Westminster Abbey! The sight of that beautiful place was for all the poor creatures who wanted these homes—it was for her! His son should be born near Westminster Abbey!

The next day she sought the address—No. 10, Old Street—and found it after long wandering. It was, indeed, near Westminster Abbey, but the street was terribly poor. The minute she got into it, she cried out within herself:

"No: it cannot be here: I will not have it here—." But at last she found the number staring at her from a dingy door. At that she turned and looked for Westminster Abbey—but there was no sign of it: only tall, narrow, sad houses, with frowsily-curtained windows; bleak children playing in the gutter and a knife-grinder wailing out his chant:

"I shall die if I come here," she said desperately, and turned to fly, but the door opened suddenly and a woman came out and ran an eye over her.

"Good-evening, lady. I see it is me you want," was her laconic greeting. "Step inside."

And Poppy found herself doing as she was bidden, following the woman into a tawdry sitting-room, which a seething gas-jet lighted with a blue and pallid glare. She and the woman faced each other over a plum-coloured table-cloth that had a border of yellow-floss flowers in hideous free-hand design.

"Are you Nurse Selton?" Poppy asked; and Mrs. Selton smilingly acknowledged her name. She was a little dark villain of a woman, with a hard mouth full of assorted teeth, and shrewd, black eyes. Her expression, however, was good-tempered, and the nursing costume she wore gave her an air of respectability, even refinement. She proceeded to inform Poppy that she was well known and esteemed in the neighbourhood; that the house was quiet and private "in the extreme"; and that, as a nurse, she possessed all the necessary diplomas and certificates. (Whether this last was true or not her listener never discovered.)

"You will be most comfortable," she finished. Poppy shuddered.

"What are your terms?" she asked, in a dull voice, having entirely made up her mind not to stay with this hateful woman in this hateful house. But she wished to parley and give herself time to rest, for she felt strangely ill. The woman named a sum ridiculously high.

"I could not afford to pay that," she answered; and Nurse Selton regarded her coldly.

"That is not much for a lady of your sort—first, I presume? You won't get lower terms anywhere else. Won't the gentleman help you?"

When Poppy realised the meaning of this question, the best she could do was to bite her lips and avert her eyes from the odious woman, who discontentedly continued:

"Well—I'll make it thirty shillings a week until, and two pounds a week after. Two guineas for the little affair—and if you want a doctor, a guinea extra."

"I don't think I care to stay," said the girl in a low voice. "You said in your advertisement that your house was near Westminster Abbey, but I see that it is nothing of the kind."

"Well, you make a great mistake," said the nurse perkily. "I'll show you a room where you can see the Abbey as plain as the nose on my face. Follow me."

And Poppy followed again, through the hall that smelled of frying herrings and soapsuds, up a narrow, oil-clothed staircase; across two landings; higher and higher, darker and darker, stumbling and kicking the narrow steps, to the top landing of all. There were three doors upon it, and one of them Mrs. Selton opened and drove forward to light a gas-jet. It smelled close and dank, but yet was inoffensively plain and simple—the ordinary bedroom furniture with no adornments of any kind. Straight facing the door was a little casement-window, with a wide ledge to lean upon; this the nurse approached and threw open.

"There you are," said she stormily; and Poppy looked forth, and looked again, and stayed looking, for it was well worth having "clomb the deadly stair" to see. There was the grey old spired pile, lying lovely against the pale evening light.

"I will stay," she said simply.

The woman thought her a fool.

"Everything paid in advance," said she in a business-like tone. Being satisfied on that point they descended. Presently, after answering a few more odiously piercing questions, Poppy escaped.