FIRST PILGRIMAGE TO HOUND STREET Hilary and his little bulldog entered Hound Street from its eastern end.

It was a grey street of three-storied houses, all in one style of architecture.

Nearly all their doors were open, and on the doorsteps babes and children were enjoying Easter holidays.

They sat in apathy, varied by sudden little slaps and bursts of noise.

Nearly all were dirty; some had whole boots, some half boots, and two or three had none.
In the gutters more children were at play; their shrill tongues and febrile movements gave Hilary the feeling that their "caste" exacted of them a profession of this faith: "To-day we live; to-morrow--if there be one--will be like to-day." He had unconsciously chosen the very centre of the street to walk in, and Miranda, who had never in her life demeaned herself to this extent, ran at his heels, turning up her eyes, as though to say: 'One thing I make a point of--no dog must speak to me!' Fortunately, there were no dogs; but there were many cats, and these cats were thin.
Through the upper windows of the houses Hilary had glimpses of women in poor habiliments doing various kinds of work, but stopping now and then to gaze into the street.