“Ah!” said he, “that is what I was about to ask you.”
“Who—are—you?” She wondered if that high, wavering voice was hers.
A sound came from him which she could not associate with any emotion of fear or shame, proper to a burglarious tramp caught in the act. He removed his hat with a sweep, and bowed.
“Madam, I am a bird of the air, seeking my meat from God.”
Noting his accent, which was that of an educated man, Mrs. Mearely’s alarm decreased, but she did not relax vigilance.
“That is poetic, but vague. Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
“My biography, in short. Briefly, then, I am a poet out of a job. Second stanza, I entered your home in the hope of finding food. Refrain, I am a hungry, hungry, hungry man.”
This, she thought, was obviously insincere and merited rebuke.
“I do not believe you!”
“Well, perhaps not,” cheerfully. “Nevertheless I am hungry. I always prefer to tell the truth, irrespective of people’s beliefs. Allow me to turn on the light.”