Mr. Hatchard raised his hat. “Good-afternoon, ma'am,” he said, politely. “What do you want?” repeated his wife. “I called,” said Mr. Hatchard, clearing his throat—“I called about the bill in the window.” 'i Called About the Bill in The Window.' Mrs. Hatchard clutched at the door-post. “Well?” she gasped. “I'd like to see the rooms,” said the other. “But you ain't a single young man,” said his wife, recovering. “I'm as good as single,” said Mr. Hatchard. “I should say, better.” “You ain't young,” objected Mrs. Hatchard. “I'm three years younger than what you are,” said Mr. Hatchard, dispassionately. His wife's lips tightened and her hand closed on the door; Mr. Hatchard put his foot in. “If you don't want lodgers, why do you put a bill up?” he inquired. “I don't take the first that comes,” said his wife. “I'll pay a week in advance,” said Mr. Hatchard, putting his hand in his pocket. “Of course, if you're afraid of having me here—afraid o' giving way to tenderness, I mean——” “Afraid?” choked Mrs. Hatchard. “Tenderness! I—I——” “Just a matter o' business,” continued her husband; “that's my way of looking at it—that's a man's way. I s'pose women are different. They can't——” “Come in,” said Mrs. Hatchard, breathing hard. Mr. Hatchard obeyed, and clapping a hand over his mouth ascended the stairs behind her. At the top she threw open the door of a tiny bedroom, and stood aside for him to enter. Mr. Hatchard sniffed critically. “Smells rather stuffy,” he said, at last. “You needn't have it,” said his wife, abruptly. “There's plenty of other fish in the sea.” “Yes; and I expect they'd stay there if they saw this room,” said the other. “Don't think I want you to have it; because I don't,” said Mrs. Hatchard, making a preliminary movement to showing him downstairs. “They might suit me,” said Mr. Hatchard, musingly, as he peeped in at the sitting-room door. “I shouldn't be at home much. I'm a man that's fond of spending his evenings out.” Mrs. Hatchard, checking a retort, eyed him grimly. “I've seen worse,” he said, slowly; “but then I've seen a good many. How much are you asking?” “Seven shillings a week,” replied his wife. “With breakfast, tea, and supper, a pound a week.” Mr. Hatchard nearly whistled, but checked himself just in time. “I'll give it a trial,” he said, with an air of unbearable patronage. Mrs. Hatchard hesitated. “If you come here, you quite understand it's on a business footing,” she said. “O' course,” said the other, with affected surprise. “What do you think I want it on?” “You come here as a stranger, and I look after you as a stranger,” continued his wife. “Certainly,” said the other. “I shall be made more comfortable that way, I'm sure. But, of course, if you're afraid, as I said before, of giving way to tender——” “Tender fiddlesticks!” interrupted his wife, flushing and eying him angrily.