The conversation at this point was interrupted by the appearance of the juvenile man.
“Mr. Barnes, the ladies desire your company immediately.”
The manager hurriedly left the room and the newcomer regarded his retiring figure with a twinkle in his eye. Then he took a turn around the room in stilted fashion––like one who “carried about with him his pits, boxes and galleries”––and observed:
“Faith, Mr. Barnes’ couch is not a bed of roses. It is better to have the fair ones dangling after you, than to be running at their every beck and call.”
Here he twisted his mustache upward.
“A woman is a strange creature,” he resumed. “If she calls and you come once, your legs will be busy for the rest of your natural days.”
He seemed about to continue his observations along this philosophical line, when the manager appeared in 24 much perturbation, approaching the landlord, who, at the same time, had entered the room from the kitchen.
“The ladies insist that their sheets are damp,” began the manager in his most plausible manner.
A dangerous light appeared in the other’s eyes.
“It’s the weather, you understand. Not your fault; bless you, no!”