The poor lady had her own vision, and it was, needless to say, considerably more realistic than Marianne's. All she dared hope for her darling was a comfortable small apartment, with a genteel pianoforte and genteel students, a canary bird, and perhaps a genteel kitten. Marianne did not notice when Mrs. Jay suddenly stopped speaking, nor did she observe the older woman's pallor.

Later that evening, after they had retired to their rooms, Mrs. Jay unlocked a small cabinet and took out a dark, sticky-looking syrup. She stood holding it for a few moments, an expression of distaste on her face. The doctor had pressed the laudanum upon her in spite of her insistence that she would never resort to drugs. If God chose to afflict her, she would bear the pain. It was not pain that weakened her resolve, but her determination that Marianne should not have worry about her godmother added to her other troubles. Her hand was quite steady as she measured out a careful dose. It was a sin, no doubt. If so, she would suffer the consequences.

Fortunately for Marianne, darkness was well advanced when the North Britain express pulled into King's Cross Station and she got her first look at the city she had dreamed of with such romantic hopes – fortunately, because night hid the soot and dirt and concealed the most wretched victims of a great nation's indifference.

She had resigned herself to being accompanied, knowing full well that Mrs. Jay would never allow her to make such a long journey unchaperoned. It had not been an easy task to find a traveling companion, for the residents of Wulfingham seldom had occasion to visit London. Mrs. Jay had finally been forced to extend her inquiries as far as York. Here she had found success, in the form of Mrs. Wackford, the wife of a schoolmaster. The school was known for its strictness, even in an age when education was not supposed to be fun. It had an excellent reputation among parents who were not at all amused by Mr. Dickens' savage satires on Yorkshire schools, being particularly popular with those who served the Queen in the jungles of the East. Mrs. Wackford was journeying to London to meet two such unfortunates, sent from India by their widowed papa; and as soon as Marianne set eyes on the lady she pitied the unknown children with all her heart. The schoolmaster's wife looked like a tall thin knobby iron column. Rusty ringlets, as rigid as sculptured bronze, lined the rim of her black bonnet. The only muscles on her face that moved were the ones necessary to open her mouth the barest slit when she was obliged to speak.

Marianne never knew whether Mrs. Wackford took an instant dislike to her personally, or whether she simply disliked everyone on principle. Certainly she displayed no warmth toward anyone they encountered, not even toward Mrs. Jay. That good lady had arisen at two A.M. and had endured the uncomfortable ride into York with her goddaughter; but not even the laudanum, which she had been taking regularly, could make this final parting endurable. After a quick, desperate embrace she fled, knowing she would betray herself if she stayed. Billy, who had driven the hired carriage from Wulfingham and carried Marianne's modest luggage into the station, lingered just long enough to give Marianne a most improper wink and press a small packet into her hand.

Marianne bit her lip hard and managed not to cry. Excitement had prevented her from sleeping the previous night, and she was bewildered by the new sights around her. She had never traveled by train before; the echoing station with its noisy crowds and snorting steel monsters was terrifying. She was not given time to indulge in tears. With a sniff and a jerk of her head, Mrs. Wackford indicated a nearby carriage.

The novelty soon wore off and was succeeded by tedium. Mrs. Wackford had a "Ladies Only" sign tacked on their compartment, so there were no other travelers to entertain them; for all the other ladies seemed to be accompanied by gentlemen. The only thing that cheered Marianne was Billy's gift – a twopenny's worth of bulls' eyes, rather squashed and dusty-looking, but recalling the sweets they had so often shared. She might have wept then, but seeing Mrs. Wackford's outraged glance at the grubby little offering, she was moved to mischief instead. Leaning forward, she proffered the sticky sweet and said demurely, "Do have one, ma'am."

This gesture effectively ended any possible communication between the two. Marianne dozed and woke and looked out the window and dozed again. The sky was cloudy, and it soon began to rain. Even her fertile imagination was daunted by the dreariness inside and out, and for the first time she began to entertain doubts of the future.

If the station at York had awed her, the magnificence of King's Cross made her wish she were back in Mrs. Jay's cozy parlor. The noise, amplified a thousandfold by the lofty ceiling, made her head ache. Everyone in London seemed to shout, and everyone except Marianne herself seemed to know where he was going and was in a great hurry to get there.

In an alarming foghorn bellow Mrs. Wackford summoned a porter and started out along the platform, shoving and pushing with as much abandon as the others. Marianne followed. She was glad to collapse into the cab, although it smelled like musty straw inside. Followed by the heated comments of the porter, who clearly felt that he had been inadequately compensated for his efforts, the cab creaked out of the station and onto the city streets.

Tired as she was, Marianne could not resist peeking out the window. Accustomed to the darkness of country lanes, she was dazzled by the gas lamps that illumined the main thoroughfares, and was amazed to note that though the hour was late the streets were crowded with people.

"How elegantly ladies dress here," she exclaimed.

Mrs. Wackford leaned forward to look. It was not difficult for her to pick out the particular "lady" who had roused Marianne's interest; her gaudy red satin skirts gleamed like stained glass in the lamplight, and her pelisse was thrown back from her shoulders, displaying a broad white bosom and the flash of what Marianne had naively believed to be diamonds. As Mrs. Wackford stared, a man in evening dress strolled up to the red-satin lady, doffed his top hat with a flourish, and offered her his arm.

Marianne felt herself pulled away from the window and shoved back into her corner.

"That," said Mrs. Wackford, "is no lady. I am responsible for you, miss, until we reach your boarding house, so I must insist that you pay no attention to such – er – persons."

"Is it a fallen woman?" Marianne asked, breathless with excitement.

Her companion gasped. "What is the world coming to? A modest young woman of my time would never have asked such a question!"

Marianne subsided. She did not dare move out of her corner, but by craning her neck she caught occasional glimpses of shop windows displaying a luxurious assortment of goods, walls placarded with garish signs advertising pills and potions, corsets and coal scuttles, and more people than she had ever seen gathered together in one place. She did not see the beggars and the pickpockets, and she failed to recognize the harlots.

Eventually the cab turned off the brightly lighted street and passed into a quiet area of small houses.

"At last," said Mrs. Wackford, as the cab came to a stop. "Make haste, Miss Ransom, if you please; I have still some distance to travel and the hour is late."

Marianne was glad to oblige. Much as she dreaded the strange faces and places awaiting her, nothing could be more unpleasant than the company of Mrs. Wackford.

The house before which they had stopped was one of a row of similar structures, tall and narrow, each separated from its neighbors by a slitlike passageway. A flight of steps led up to the front door. The door opened; a form was seen silhouetted against the glow of lamplight within.