The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (4.1895)

The House of Shame

By H. B. Marriott Watson

There was no immediate response to his knock, and, ere he
rapped again, Farrell turned stupidly and took in a vision of
the Street. The morning sunshine streamed on Piccadilly ; a
snap of air shook the tree-tops in the Park ; and beyond, the
greensward sparkled with dew. The traffic roared along the road-
way, but the cabs upon the stand rode like ships at anchor on a
windless ocean. Below him flowed the tide of passengers. The dis-
passion of that drifting scene affected him by contrast with his own
warm flood of emotions ; the picture—the trees, the sunlight, and
the roar—imprinted itself sharply upon his brain. His glance flitted
among the faces, and wandered finally to the angle of the crossway,
by which his cab was sauntering leisurely. With a shudder he
wheeled face-about to the door, and raised the clapper. For a
moment yet he stood in hesitation. The current of his thoughts
ran like a mill-race, and a hundred discomforting impressions
flowed together. The house lay so quiet ; the sunlight Struck the
window-panes with a lively and discordant glare. He put his
hand into his pocket and withdrew a latchkey, twiddling it
restlessly between his fingers. With a thrust and a twist the door
would slip softly open, and he might enter unobserved. He
entertained the impulse but a moment. He dared not enter in
The Yellow Book—Vol. IV. d that