He knew where they were going.

The little cross street of the _Lupanares_ was near.

The guard would open a door, remaining on watch with dramatic anxiety as though he were endangering his job by this favor in exchange for a tip.

And the two ladies were about to see some tarnished, clumsy paintings showing nothing new or original in the world,--nude, yellowish figures, just alike at first glance with no other novelty than an exaggerated emphasis on sex distinction.
Half an hour afterwards Ulysses abandoned his bench, for his eyes had tired of the severe monotony of the ruins.

In the street of the Hot Baths (_Thermae_), he again visited the house of the tragic poet.