Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for not liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured lady. Maybe the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of generosity and amiability. Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow’s cap before the looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the gas. “And don’t stop gossiping, and don’t you take it upon yourself to answer questions. Say I’ll be up in a minute,” were Mrs. Pennycherry’s further instructions, “and mind you hide your hands as much as you can.” *** “What are you grinning at?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of minutes later, of the dingy Mary Jane. “Wasn’t grinning,” explained the meek Mary Jane, “was only smiling to myself.” “What at?” “Dunno,” admitted Mary Jane. But still she went on smiling. “What’s he like then?” demanded Mrs. Pennycherry. “‘E ain’t the usual sort,” was Mary Jane’s opinion. “Thank God for that,” ejaculated Mrs. Pennycherry piously. “Says ‘e’s been recommended, by a friend.” “By whom?” “By a friend. ‘E didn’t say no name.” Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. “He’s not the funny sort, is he?” Not that sort at all. Mary Jane was sure of it. Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered the room the stranger rose and bowed. Nothing could have been simpler than the 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--”