The public-house is on the corner of Enfield Row and Gissing Street. It has the reputation of being the most popular place in the neighbourhood. The White Horse is kept by a wife of singular energy. The landlady is a woman with a capital ‘T’. In time, she governed her tavern and kept it decently and early without a board; in fact, the White Horse is a gathering and talkative place, provided with hackneyed literature and a specialised clientel. The room which was most often frequented by the students had its name changed from the ‘smoking-room’ to ‘The Green Room.’
But the student of phenomena was at length allowed to reenter his lodgings. There was a silence for a few moments as the door was opened. Then the voice of the landlady — a woman with a capital ‘T’ as it happens, but still a woman — reached his ears. ‘Can I send for anything, Orinda,’ she said.
To the student of phenomena, this was significant. It suggested a renovation of his lodgings. He took the initiative. ‘I don’t think I’ll be wanted,’ he said. ‘I’ll just run up to London in the morning. My friend’s landed. I don’t know when I shall be back, but I’ll manage to get a telegram for you.’ He knew, however, that this was only a repetition of his previous good-conduct. The landlady was not impressed. Her gentle temper permitted no emotion to betray itself. Still, it was too unsympathetic, too mathematical, for her to be able to undergird it with the exquisite tenderness of Shakespeare. d2c66b5586