The street lamps were being lit already, and as she stood still for a moment beneath one of them, she tried to think of some neighboring drawing-room where there would be firelight and talk congenial to her mood.

That mood, owing to the spinning traffic and the evening veil of unreality, was ill-adapted to her home surroundings.

Perhaps, on the whole, a shop was the best place in which to preserve this queer sense of heightened existence.
At the same time she wished to talk.

Remembering Mary Datchet and her repeated invitations, she crossed the road, turned into Russell Square, and peered about, seeking for numbers with a sense of adventure that was out of all proportion to the deed itself.

She found herself in a dimly lighted hall, unguarded by a porter, and pushed open the first swing door.