The Lodger | Page 7

room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little
over-encumbered with furniture. Covering the floor was a green carpet

simulating moss; four chairs were placed round the table which
occupied the exact middle of the apartment, and in the corner, opposite
the door giving on to the landing, was a roomy, old-fashioned
chiffonnier.
On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits of
early Victorian belles, clad in lace and tarletan ball dresses, clipped
from an old Book of Beauty. Mrs. Bunting was very fond of these
pictures; she thought they gave the drawing-room a note of elegance
and refinement.
As she hurriedly turned up the gas she was glad, glad indeed, that she
had summoned up sufficient energy, two days ago, to give the room a
thorough turn-out.
It had remained for a long time in the state in which it had been left by
its last dishonest, dirty occupants when they had been scared into going
away by Bunting's rough threats of the police. But now it was in
apple-pie order, with one paramount exception, of which Mrs. Bunting
was painfully aware. There were no white curtains to the windows, but
that omission could soon be remedied if this gentleman really took the
lodgings.
But what was this--? The stranger was looking round him rather
dubiously. "This is rather--rather too grand for me," he said at last "I
should like to see your other rooms, Mrs. er--"
"--Bunting," she said softly. "Bunting, sir."
And as she spoke the dark, heavy load of care again came down and
settled on her sad, burdened heart. Perhaps she had been mistaken, after
all--or rather, she had not been mistaken in one sense, but perhaps this
gentleman was a poor gentleman--too poor, that is, to afford the rent of
more than one room, say eight or ten shillings a week; eight or ten
shillings a week would be very little use to her and Bunting, though
better than nothing at all.
"Will you just look at the bedroom, sir?"

"No," he said, "no. I think I should like to see what you have farther up
the house, Mrs.--," and then, as if making a prodigious mental effort, he
brought out her name, "Bunting," with a kind of gasp.
The two top rooms were, of course, immediately above the
drawing-room floor. But they looked poor and mean, owing to the fact
that they were bare of any kind of ornament. Very little trouble had
been taken over their arrangement; in fact, they had been left in much
the same condition as that in which the Buntings had found them.
For the matter of that, it is difficult to make a nice, genteel sitting-room
out of an apartment of which the principal features are a sink and a big
gas stove. The gas stove, of an obsolete pattern, was fed by a tiresome,
shilling-in-the-slot arrangement. It had been the property of the people
from whom the Buntings had taken over the lease of the house, who,
knowing it to be of no monetary value, had thrown it in among the
humble fittings they had left behind.
What furniture there was in the room was substantial and clean, as
everything belonging to Mrs. Bunting was bound to be, but it was a
bare, uncomfortable-looking place, and the landlady now felt sorry that
she had done nothing to make it appear more attractive.
To her surprise, however, her companion's dark, sensitive,
hatchet-shaped face became irradiated with satisfaction. "Capital!
Capital!" he exclaimed, for the first time putting down the bag he held
at his feet, and rubbing his long, thin hands together with a quick,
nervous movement.
"This is just what I have been looking for." He walked with long, eager
strides towards the gas stove. "First-rate--quite first-rate! Exactly what I
wanted to find! You must understand, Mrs.--er-- Bunting, that I am a
man of science. I make, that is, all sorts of experiments, and I often
require the--ah, well, the presence of great heat."
He shot out a hand, which she noticed shook a little, towards the stove.
"This, too, will be useful--exceedingly useful, to me," and he touched
the edge of the stone sink with a lingering, caressing touch.

He threw his head back and passed his hand over his high, bare
forehead; then, moving towards a chair, he sat down--wearily. "I'm
tired," he muttered in a low voice, "tired--tired! I've been walking about
all day, Mrs. Bunting, and I could find nothing to sit down upon. They
do not put benches for tired men in the London streets. They do so on
the Continent. In some ways they are far more humane on the
Continent than they are in England, Mrs. Bunting."
"Indeed, sir," she said civilly; and then, after a nervous glance, she
asked the