not closed, and pulling the remnant of a bell, Hilary walked in.

The first thing that he noticed was a smell; it was not precisely bad,
but it might have been better. It was a smell of walls and washing,
varied rather vaguely by red herrings. The second thing he noticed was
his moonlight bulldog, who stood on the doorstep eyeing a tiny sandy
cat. This very little cat, whose back was arched with fury, he was
obliged to chase away before his bulldog would come in. The third thing
he noticed was a lame woman of short stature, standing in the doorway
of a room. Her face, with big cheek-bones, and wide-open, light grey,
dark-lashed eyes, was broad and patient; she rested her lame leg by
holding to the handle of the door.

"I dunno if you'll find anyone upstairs. I'd go and ask, but my leg's
lame."

"So I see," said Hilary; "I'm sorry."

The woman sighed: "Been like that these five years"; and turned back
into her room.

"Is there nothing to be done for it?"

"Well, I did think so once," replied the woman, "but they say the bone's
diseased; I neglected it at the start."

"Oh dear!"

"We hadn't the time to give to it," the woman said defensively, retiring
into a room so full of china cups, photographs, coloured prints, waxwork