The unconscious sarcasm of the remark was passed unnoticed by Mrs. Anderson.
Mr. Mortimer turned out to be a pleasing young chap, smartly but not expensively dressed, about twenty-two years of age, and very nervous. He twirled his derby in his hands, and seemed quite embarrassed when Mrs. Anderson beamed a cordial welcome upon him.
"I—I am looking for a room," began Mortimer. "I was referred to you."
"Are you in the profession?" inquired Aunt Jane, motioning toward a comfortable arm-chair.
"I graduated last June from the dramatic school, but I haven't done much yet. I couldn't afford expensive rooms—"
"That's all right, Mr. Mortimer," interrupted Aunt Jane. "I like to have beginners. They pay their bills. And I only want refined people who behave themselves. Of course a little impromptu frivolity makes every one feel at home, and if there's one thing I always try to do, it is to make my house homelike."
"I'm sure it is that."
"Yes, sir. A real home, especially for the lonely young girls I have living with me here. Why, I have one young lady staying here now who is under my special protection. The gentleman who sent her to me said he knew of my reputation, and that he wanted me to be a real mother to her."
"I hope I may be admitted into this happy family," ventured Mortimer, smiling.
"I'm so proud of his trust in me," continued Aunt Jane, evidently started on a pet theme, "that I never let that girl out of my sight—except, of course, when she's at the theater. And I have to telephone him every day and tell him what she's doing. But how I run on—here's Lizzie, who will show you some of the rooms. Did you want a big room or a small room?"