Washington Square district, which they had explored together, shooting off at a tangent into the kind of neighbourhood where Bambi had fallen sick at the sights and the filth. They drew up before an old-fashioned house, with dirty steps and windows and curtains. It looked like a better-class citizen on the down grade, beside the neighbouring houses, which were frankly low-class. The driver opened the door and Bambi stared up at the place.
“Why, this can’t be it!” she exclaimed.
“This is the number you gave me.”
“Wait,” she said. She ran up the rickety steps, her heart sick with fear. She rang and waited and rang. Finally, a dirty head appeared out of an upstairs window.
“What d’yer want?” a voice demanded.
“Does Mr. Jarvis Jocelyn live here?”
“Three flights up-back,” and the window slammed.
“Wait for me, driver,” she called. She began to climb the dirty stairs, tears in her eyes.
“Oh, my dear, my dear!” she said, over and over again.
She knocked at the third-floor back, with no response; so she opened the door and entered. One dark area window, a bed, a chair, a dresser, an im-
