Caledonian Road is a great channel of traffic running directly north from King’s Cross to Holloway.  It is doubtful whether London can show any thoroughfare of importance more offensive to eye and ear and nostril.  You stand at the entrance to it, and gaze into a region of supreme ugliness; every house front is marked with meanness and inveterate grime; every shop seems breaking forth with mould or dry-rot; the people who walk here appear one and all to be employed in labour that soils body and spirit.  Journey on the top of a tram-car from King’s Cross to Holloway, and civilisation has taught you its ultimate achievement in ignoble hideousness.  You look off into narrow side-channels where unconscious degradation has made its inexpugnable home, and sits veiled with refuse.  You pass above lines of railway, which cleave the region with black-breathing fissure.  You see the pavements half occupied with the paltriest and most sordid wares; the sign of the pawnbroker is on every hand; the public-houses look and reek more intolerably than in other places.  The population is dense, the poverty is undisguised.  All this northward-bearing tract, between Camden Town on the one hand and Islington on the other, is the valley of the shadow of vilest servitude.  Its public monument is a cyclopean prison:  save for the desert around the Great Northern Goods Depot, its only open ground is a malodorous cattle-market.  In comparison, Lambeth is picturesque and venerable, St. Giles’s is romantic, Hoxton is clean and suggestive of domesticity, Whitechapel is full of poetry, Limehouse is sweet with sea-breathings.

Hither Mrs. Ormonde drove from Victoria Station.  The neighbourhood was unknown to her save by name.  On entering the Caledonian Road, her cabman had to make inquiries for Bank Street, which he at length found not far from the prison.  He drew up before a small coffee-shop, on the window whereof was pasted this advertisement:  ‘Dine here!  Best quality.  Largest quantity!  Lowest price.’  Over the door was the name ‘Gandle.’

Mrs. Ormonde bade the driver wait, and entered.  It was the dinner-hour of this part of the world.  Every available place was occupied by men, some in their shirt-sleeves, who were doing ample justice to the fare set before them by Mrs. Gandle and her daughter.  Beyond the space assigned to the public was a partition of wood, four feet high, with a door in the middle; this concealed the kitchen, whence came clouds of steam, and the sound of frying, and odours manifold.  At the entrance of a lady—­a lady without qualification—­such of the feeders as happened to look from their plates stared in wonderment.  It was an embarrassing position.  Mrs. Ormonde walked quickly down the narrow gangway, and to the door in the partition.  A young woman was just coming forth, with steaming plates on a tray.

‘Can I see Mrs. Gandle?’ the visitor asked.

The girl cried out:  ‘Mother, you’re wanted!’ and pushed past, with grins bestowed on either side.