When he crawled out of his closet, he stood blinking at the grey sheet stuffed with laundry, not knowing what had happened to him.  He felt a little sick as he contemplated the bundle.  Everything here was different; he hated the disorder of the place, the grey prison light, his old shoes and himself and all his slovenly habits.  The black calico curtains that ran on wires over his big window were white with dust.  There were three greasy frying pans in the sink, and the sink itself—­He felt desperate.  He couldn’t stand this another minute.  He took up an armful of winter clothes and ran down four flights into the basement.

“Mrs. Foley,” he began, “I want my room cleaned this afternoon, thoroughly cleaned.  Can you get a woman for me right away?”

“Is it company you’re having?” the fat, dirty janitress enquired.  Mrs. Foley was the widow of a useful Tammany man, and she owned real estate in Flatbush.  She was huge and soft as a feather bed.  Her face and arms were permanently coated with dust, grained like wood where the sweat had trickled.

“Yes, company.  That’s it.”

“Well, this is a queer time of the day to be asking for a cleaning woman.  It’s likely I can get you old Lizzie, if she’s not drunk.  I’ll send Willy round to see.”

Willy, the son of fourteen, roused from the stupor and stain of his fifth box of cigarettes by the gleam of a quarter, went out.  In five minutes he returned with old Lizzie,—­she smelling strong of spirits and wearing several jackets which she had put on one over the other, and a number of skirts, long and short, which made her resemble an animated dish-clout.  She had, of course, to borrow her equipment from Mrs. Foley, and toiled up the long flights, dragging mop and pail and broom.  She told Hedger to be of good cheer, for he had got the right woman for the job, and showed him a great leather strap she wore about her wrist to prevent dislocation of tendons.  She swished about the place, scattering dust and splashing soapsuds, while he watched her in nervous despair.  He stood over Lizzie and made her scour the sink, directing her roughly, then paid her and got rid of her.  Shutting the door on his failure, he hurried off with his dog to lose himself among the stevedores and dock labourers on West Street.

A strange chapter began for Don Hedger.  Day after day, at that hour in the afternoon, the hour before his neighbour dressed for dinner, he crouched down in his closet to watch her go through her mysterious exercises.  It did not occur to him that his conduct was detestable; there was nothing shy or retreating about this unclad girl,—­a bold body, studying itself quite coolly and evidently well pleased with itself, doing all this for a purpose.  Hedger scarcely regarded his action as conduct at all; it was something that had happened to him.  More than once he went out and tried to stay away for the whole afternoon, but at about five o’clock he was