Mrs and Miss Pinkerton were of course on the sunny side, with their balconies from which the view could be patronized. The view was their own; they were to enjoy the spiritual, crude and half-repellent beauty of that changing curtain, so featureless but for the occasional passing of a ship. They barricaded themselves in from the assault of noonday behind impassable jalousies. No private suite with a bathroom was available; it was possible, they brought themselves to comprehend dimly, that in hotels of this type none existed. They therefore had had reserved, at some expense, the bathroom opposite to their doors for their exclusive occupation. One says ‘occupation’ advisedly: here in white-tiled sanctuary their bowls of soap, their loofahs, their scented bath salts could remain secure from outrage; here, too, their maid could do their smaller washing and hang the garments up to dry before the radiator. There generally were garments drying there; the two distrusted foreign laundresses, perhaps with reason.

Other visitors on the first floor respected this arrangement which had a certain beauty for them, the accretion of prestige. They bathed at the other end of the corridor; if that bathroom was full they went up to the second floor where people could not afford to have baths so often. James Milton, a clergyman, was, however, unaware of this, and going upstairs directly after his arrival locked himself into Mrs Pinkerton’s bathroom. Here he hoped to remove by steaming and by prolonged immersion the grime, ingrained in one till one is almost polished, of a transcontinental journey. This was the bath that he had been promising himself for the last thirty-six hours: it had come to shine before his numbing intelligence as in itself the journey’s bourne. He did not notice the bath salts, but, unthinkingly, made full use of the loofah, which he was surprised and pleased to find there.

He had arrived late, having dined on the train, and few people were at hand to witness the arrival: a big man talking Italian above the folds of a muffler and making abundant, baulked gestures at the boots and concierge. He seemed unwilling to admit how well they could speak English. The few onlookers, by hanging poised in their talk for an infinitesimal second’s observation, bore in a sense of his squalor upon him sharply. He was aware of the glow of clean faces, the glaze of immaculate shirt-fronts. He felt them averting their eyes considerately. Relegated, alien, blinking like an owl after his dark drive in the light’s untempered scrutiny, he stood for a moment, then fled upstairs on the way to Mrs Pinkerton’s bathroom.