'It's a nice room,' said the pantomime dame. Which was a black lie. It was not a nice room. It never had been a nice room. And it did not seem at all probable that it ever would be a nice room. But it looked cheap. That was the great thing. Nobody could have the assurance to charge much for a room like that. A landlady with a conscience might even have gone to the length of paying people some small sum by way of compensation to them for sleeping in it. 'About what?' queried Mike. Cheapness was the great consideration. He understood that his salary at the bank would be about four pounds ten a month, to begin with, and his father was allowing him five pounds a month. One does not do things _en prince_ on a hundred and fourteen pounds a year. The pantomime dame became slightly more animated. Prefacing her remarks by a repetition of her statement that it was a nice room, she went on to say that she could 'do' it at seven and sixpence per week 'for him'--giving him to understand, presumably, that, if the Shah of Persia or Mr Carnegie ever applied for a night's rest, they would sigh in vain for such easy terms. And that included lights. Coals were to be looked on as an extra. 'Sixpence a scuttle.' Attendance was thrown in. Having stated these terms, she dribbled a piece of fluff under the bed, after the manner of a professional Association footballer, and relapsed into her former moody silence. Mike said he thought that would be all right. The pantomime dame exhibited no pleasure. ''Bout meals?' she said. 'You'll be wanting breakfast. Bacon, aigs, an' that, I suppose?' Mike said he supposed so. 'That'll be extra,' she said. 'And dinner? A chop, or a nice steak?' Mike bowed before this original flight of fancy. A chop or a nice steak seemed to be about what he might want. 'That'll be extra,' said the pantomime dame in her best Wilkie Bard manner.