t door; and when I look, I see him speaking quietly to one of the typesetters—see the man draw on his jacket, then go. Mr Hawtrey comes back. He nods to my feet.
''Put your shoes on, now,'' he says, turning away. ''We must be
ready''
''You are kind, Mr Hawtrey,'' I say, as I lean to tug on my broken slippers. ''God knows, no-one has been so kind to me, since—'' My voice is lost.
''There, there,'' he says, distractedly. ''Don''t think of it, now . . .''
Then I sit in silence. He waits, takes out his watch, goes now and then to the top of the stairs, to stand and listen. At last he goes and comes quickly back.
''They are here,'' he says. ''Now, have you everything? Come this way, carefully.''
He takes me down. He takes me through a set of rooms, piled high with crates and boxes, and then through a sort of scullery, to a door. The door leads to a little grey area: there are steps from this, to an alley. A cab waits there with, beside it, a woman. She sees us and nods.
''You know what to do?'' Mr Hawtrey says to her. She nods again. He gives her money, wrapped in the paper on which he has written. ''Here is the lady, look. Her name is Mrs Rivers. You are to be kind to her. Have you some shawl?''
She has a plaid wool wrap, which she puts about me, to cover up my head. The wool is hot against my cheek. The day is still warm, though it is almost twilight. The sun has gone from the sky. I have been three hours from Lant Street.