An appalling and abysmal depression settled upon Sabre. He imagined
himself pulling the dislocated neck of one of those bells and stepping
into what festered behind those sinister doors: the dark and malodorous
stairways, the dark and malodorous rooms, their prisoned occupants
opening their prisons and staring at him,--those women, those men, those
children. He imagined himself in one of those rooms, saw it, felt it,
smelt it. He imagined himself cutting his throat in one of those rooms.

At tea in their hotel on their return Mabel chattered animatedly on all
they had seen. "I'm awfully glad we went. I think it's a very good thing
to know for oneself just how that side of life lives. Those awful people
at the windows!"--and she laughed. He noticed for the first time what a
sudden laugh she had, rather loud.

Sabre agreed. "Yes, I think it's a good thing to have an idea of their
lives. I can't say I'm glad I went, though. You've no idea how awfully
depressed that kind of thing makes me feel."

She laughed again. "Depressed! How ever can it? How funny you must be!"

Then she said, "Yes, I'm glad I've seen for myself. You know, when those
sort of people come into your service--the airs they give themselves and
the way they demand the best of everything--and then when you see the
kind of homes they come from--!"

"Yes, it makes you think, doesn't it?"

"It _does_!"