The “Peggy Bedford” was in the lowest quarter of Whitechapel and crowded daily with sullen and sad-looking people.  It was hot, smelly and draughty.  When we went in I observed that Phoebe was a favourite; she waved her hand gaily here and there and ordered herself a glass of bitter.  The men who had been hanging about outside and in different corners of the room joined up to the counter on her arrival and I heard a lot of chaff going on while she tossed her pretty head and picked at potted shrimps.  The room was too crowded for any one to notice me; and I sat quietly in a corner eating my sandwiches and smoking my cigarette.  The frosted-glass double doors swung to and fro and the shrill voices of children asking for drinks and carrying them away in their mugs made me feel profoundly unhappy.  I followed one little girl through the doors out into the street and saw her give the mug to a cabman and run off delighted with his tip.  When I returned I was deafened by a babel of voices; there was a row going on:  one of the men, drunk but good-tempered, was trying to take the flower out of Phoebe’s hat.  Provoked by this, a young man began jostling him, at which all the others pressed forward; the barman shouted ineffectually to them to stop; they merely cursed him and said that they were backing Phoebe.  A woman, more drunk than the others, swore at being disturbed and said that Phoebe was a blasted something that I could not understand.  Suddenly I saw her hitting out like a prize-fighter; and the men formed a ring round them.  I jumped up, seized an under-fed, blear-eyed being who was nearest to me and flung him out of my way.  Rage and disgust inspired me with great physical strength; but I was prevented from breaking through the ring by a man seizing my arm and saying: 

“Let be or her man will give you a damned thrashing!”

Not knowing which of the women he was alluding to, I dipped down and, dodging the crowd, broke through the ring and flung myself upon Phoebe; my one fear was that she would be too late for her work and that the promise I had made to Cliffords would be broken.

Women fight very awkwardly and I was battered about between the two.  I turned and cursed the men standing round for laughing and doing nothing and, before I could separate the combatants, I had given and received heavy blows; but unexpected help came from a Cliffords packer who happened to look in.  We extricated ourselves as well as we could and ran back to the factory.  I made Phoebe apologise to the chief for being late and, feeling stiff all over, returned home to Grosvenor Square.

Cliffords, who was an expert boxer, invited me into his room on my next visit to tell him the whole story and my shares went up.

By the end of July all the girls—­about fifty-two—­stayed with me after their work and none of them went to the “Peggy Bedford.”

The Whitechapel murders took place close to the factory about that time, and the girls and I visited what the journalists call “the scene of the tragedy.”  It was strange watching crowds of people collected daily to see nothing but an archway.