“Yes,” Hodder forced himself to go on, and it came to him that he had repeated virtually the same words to Mr. Parr, “it is at our very doors, a continual reproach.  There is real poverty in those rooming houses, and I have never seen vice so defiant and shameless.”

“It’s a shifty place, that,” McCrae replied.  “They’re in it one day and gone the next, a sort of catch-basin for all the rubbish of the city.  I can recall when decent people lived there, and now it’s all light housekeeping and dives and what not.”

“But that doesn’t relieve us of responsibility,” Hodder observed.

“I’m not denying it.  I think ye’ll find there’s very little to get hold of.”

Once more, he had the air of stopping short, of being able to say more.  Hodder refrained from pressing him.

Dalton Street continued to haunt him.  And often at nightfall, as he hurried back to his bright rooms in the parish house from some of the many errands that absorbed his time, he had a feeling of self-accusation as he avoided women wearily treading the pavements, or girls and children plodding homeward through the wet, wintry streets.  Some glanced at him with heavy eyes, others passed sullenly, with bent heads.  At such moments his sense of helplessness was overpowering.  He could not follow them to the dreary dwellings where they lodged.

Eldon Parr had said that poverty was inevitable.