Perceiving that Benny considered his mission as master of ceremonies at an end, Mr. Smith hastened to explain.
“I came from your husband’s brother, madam. He—er—sent me. He thought perhaps you had a room that I could have.”
“A room?” Her eyes grew still more coldly disapproving.
“Yes, and board. He thought—that is, they thought that perhaps—you would be so kind.”
“Oh, a boarder! You mean for pay, of course?”
“Most certainly!”
“Oh!” She softened visibly, and stepped back. “Well, I don’t know. I never have—but that isn’t saying I couldn’t, of course. Come in. We can talk it over. that doesn’t cost anything. Come in; this way, please.” As she finished speaking she stepped to the low-burning gas jet and turned it carefully to give a little more light down the narrow hallway.
“Thank you,” murmured Mr. Smith, stepping across the threshold.
Benny had already reached the door at the end of the hall. The woman began to tug at her apron strings.
“I hope you’ll excuse my gingham apron, Mr.—er—Smith. Wasn’t that the name?”