As she entered the iron gate of the dwellings, and saw before her the large asphalted court round which they ran—­blazing heat on one side of it, and on the other some children playing cricket against the wall with chalk marks for wickets—­she was seized with depression.  The tall yet mean buildings, the smell of dust and heat, the general impression of packed and crowded humanity—­these things, instead of offering her rest, only continued and accented the sense of strain, called for more endurance, more making the best of it.

But she found a tired smile for some of the children who ran up to her, and then she climbed the stairs of the E. block, and opened the door of her own tenement, number 10.  In number 9 lived Minta Hurd and her children, who had joined Marcella in London some two months before.  In sets 7 and 8, on either side of Marcella and the Hurds, lived two widows, each with a family, who were mostly out charing during the day.

Marcella’s Association allowed its District Nurses to live outside the “home” of the district on certain conditions, which had been fulfilled in Marcella’s case by her settlement next door to her old friends in these buildings which were inhabited by a very respectable though poor class.  Meanwhile the trustees of the buildings had allowed her to make a temporary communication between her room and the Hurds, so that she could either live her own solitary and independent life, or call for their companionship, as she pleased.

As she shut her door behind her she found herself in a little passage or entry.  To the left was her bedroom.  Straight in front of her was the living room with a small close range in it, and behind it a little back kitchen.

The living room was cheerful and even pretty.  Her art-student’s training showed itself.  The cheap blue and white paper, the couple of oak flap tables from a broker’s shop in Marchmont Street, the two or three cane chairs with their bright chintz cushions, the Indian rug or two on the varnished boards, the photographs and etchings on the walls, the books on the tables—­there was not one of these things that was not in its degree a pleasure to her young senses, that did not help her to live her life.  This afternoon as she opened the door and looked in, the pretty colours and forms in the tiny room were as water to the thirsty.  Her mother had sent her some flowers the day before.  There they were on the tables, great bunches of honey-suckles, of blue-bells, and Banksia roses.  And over the mantelpiece was a photograph of the place where such flowers as Mellor possessed mostly grew—­the unkempt lawn, the old fountain and grey walls of the Cedar Garden.

The green blind over the one window which looked into the court, had been drawn down against the glare of the sun, as though by a careful hand.  Beside a light wooden rocking chair, which was Marcella’s favourite seat, a tray of tea things had been put out.  Marcella drew a long breath of comfort as she put down her bag.