Dejectedly and painfully climbing to his room, he encountered, on the landing above, a little woman in a jaunty dusting-cap and a trim habit of crisp muslin. He tried to evade her, but in vain. She looked him squarely in the face—occasioning him the dubious impression of either needing shaving very badly, or having egg-stains on his chin.
"You're the gentleman in Number II, I believe?
Why, Mr. McKinney, are you ill?"
He nodded confusedly.
"Mr. McKinney is your name, I think," she queried, with a pretty elevation of the eyebrows.
"Yes, ma'am," said John rather abjectly. "You see, ma'am—But I beg pardon," he went on stammeringly, and with a very awkward bow—"I beg pardon, but I am addressing—ah—the—ah—the—"
"You are addressing the new landlady," she interpolated pleasantly. "Mrs. Miller is my name. I think we should be friends, Mr. McKinney, since I hear that you are one of the oldest patrons of the house."
"Thank you—thank you!" said John, completely embarrassed. "Yes, indeed!—ha, ha. Oh, yes— yes—really, we must be quite old friends, I assure you, Mrs.—Mrs.—"
"Mrs. Miller," smilingly prompted the little woman.
"Yes, ah, yes,—Mrs. Miller. Lovely morning, Mrs. Miller," said John, edging past her and backing toward his room.
But as Mrs. Miller was laughing outright, for some mysterious reason, and gave no affirmation in response to his proposition as to the quality of the weather, John, utterly abashed and nonplused, darted into his room and closed the door, "Deucedly extraordinary woman!" he thought; "wonder what's her idea!"