FIRST PILGRIMAGE TO HOUND STREET

Hilary and his little bulldog entered Hound Street from its eastern
end. It was a grey street of three-storied houses, all in one style of
architecture. Nearly all their doors were open, and on the doorsteps
babes and children were enjoying Easter holidays. They sat in apathy,
varied by sudden little slaps and bursts of noise. Nearly all were
dirty; some had whole boots, some half boots, and two or three had none.
In the gutters more children were at play; their shrill tongues and
febrile movements gave Hilary the feeling that their "caste" exacted of
them a profession of this faith: "To-day we live; to-morrow--if there be
one--will be like to-day."

He had unconsciously chosen the very centre of the street to walk in,
and Miranda, who had never in her life demeaned herself to this extent,
ran at his heels, turning up her eyes, as though to say: 'One thing I
make a point of--no dog must speak to me!'

Fortunately, there were no dogs; but there were many cats, and these
cats were thin.

Through the upper windows of the houses Hilary had glimpses of women in
poor habiliments doing various kinds of work, but stopping now and then
to gaze into the street. He walked to the end, where a wall stopped him,
and, still in the centre of the road, he walked the whole length back.
The children stared at his tall figure with indifference; they evidently
felt that he was not of those who, like themselves, had no to-morrow.

No. 1, Hound Street, abutting on the garden of a house of better class,
was distinctly the show building of the street. The door, however, was