Passing of the Third Floor Back | Page 4

stranger's bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a rush of old sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. Pennycherry saw herself an amiable well-bred lady, widow of a solicitor: a visitor had called to see her. It was but a momentary fancy. The next instant Reality reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, a lodging-house keeper, existing precariously upon a daily round of petty meannesses, was prepared for contest with a possible new boarder, who fortunately looked an inexperienced young gentleman.
"Someone has recommended me to you," began Mrs. Pennycherry; "may I ask who?"
But the stranger waved the question aside as immaterial.
"You might not remember--him," he smiled. "He thought that I should do well to pass the few months I am given--that I have to be in London, here. You can take me in?"
Mrs. Pennycherry thought that she would be able to take the stranger in.
"A room to sleep in," explained the stranger, "--any room will do--with food and drink sufficient for a man, is all that I require."
"For breakfast," began Mrs. Pennycherry, "I always give--"
"What is right and proper, I am convinced," interrupted the stranger. "Pray do not trouble to go into detail, Mrs. Pennycherry. With whatever it is I shall be content."
Mrs. Pennycherry, puzzled, shot a quick glance at the stranger, but his face, though the gentle eyes were smiling, was frank and serious.
"At all events you will see the room," suggested Mrs. Pennycherry, "before we discuss terms."
"Certainly," agreed the stranger. "I am a little tired and shall be glad to rest there."
Mrs. Pennycherry led the way upward; on the landing of the third floor, paused a moment undecided, then opened the door of the back bedroom.
"It is very comfortable," commented the stranger.
"For this room," stated Mrs. Pennycherry, "together with full board, consisting of--"
"Of everything needful. It goes without saying," again interrupted the stranger with his quiet grave smile.
"I have generally asked," continued Mrs. Pennycherry, "four pounds a week. To you--" Mrs. Pennycherry's voice, unknown to her, took to itself the note of aggressive generosity--"seeing you have been recommended here, say three pounds ten."
"Dear lady," said the stranger, "that is kind of you. As you have divined, I am not a rich man. If it be not imposing upon you I accept your reduction with gratitude."
Again Mrs. Pennycherry, familiar with the satirical method, shot a suspicious glance upon the stranger, but not a line was there, upon that smooth fair face, to which a sneer could for a moment have clung. Clearly he was as simple as he looked.
"Gas, of course, extra."
"Of course," agreed the Stranger.
"Coals--"
"We shall not quarrel," for a third time the stranger interrupted. "You have been very considerate to me as it is. I feel, Mrs. Pennycherry, I can leave myself entirely in your hands."
The stranger appeared anxious to be alone. Mrs. Pennycherry, having put a match to the stranger's fire, turned to depart. And at this point it was that Mrs. Pennycherry, the holder hitherto of an unbroken record for sanity, behaved in a manner she herself, five minutes earlier in her career, would have deemed impossible--that no living soul who had ever known her would have believed, even had Mrs. Pennycherry gone down upon her knees and sworn it to them.
"Did I say three pound ten?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry of the stranger, her hand upon the door. She spoke crossly. She was feeling cross, with the stranger, with herself--particularly with herself.
"You were kind enough to reduce it to that amount," replied the stranger; "but if upon reflection you find yourself unable--"
"I was making a mistake," said Mrs. Pennycherry, "it should have been two pound ten."
"I cannot--I will not accept such sacrifice," exclaimed the stranger; "the three pound ten I can well afford."
"Two pound ten are my terms," snapped Mrs. Pennycherry. "If you are bent on paying more, you can go elsewhere. You'll find plenty to oblige you."
Her vehemence must have impressed the stranger. "We will not contend further," he smiled. "I was merely afraid that in the goodness of your heart--"
"Oh, it isn't as good as all that," growled Mrs. Pennycherry.
"I am not so sure," returned the stranger. "I am somewhat suspicious of you. But wilful woman must, I suppose, have her way."
The stranger held out his hand, and to Mrs. Pennycherry, at that moment, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take it as if it had been the hand of an old friend and to end the interview with a pleasant laugh--though laughing was an exercise not often indulged in by Mrs. Pennycherry.
Mary Jane was standing by the window, her hands folded in front of her, when Mrs. Pennycherry re-entered the kitchen. By standing close to the window one caught a glimpse of the trees in Bloomsbury Square and through their bare branches of the sky beyond.
"There's nothing