"Young man," said she, "what name?"
"I think our friend Spike has informed you that I am sometimes called Geoffrey. Mrs. Trapes, our friend Spike told the truth."
"Young feller," she demanded, "'oo are you and—what?"
"Mrs. Trapes," he sighed, "I am a lonely wight, a wanderer in wild places, a waif, a stray, puffed hither and thither by a fate perverse—"
"Talking o' verses, you ain't a poet, are you?" enquired Mrs. Trapes, "last poet as lodged wi' me useter go to bed in 'is boots reg'lar! Consequently I ain't nowise drawed to poets—"
Mr. Ravenslee laughed and shook his head.
"Have no fear," he answered, "I'm no poet nor ever shall be. I'm quite an ordinary human being, I assure you."
"Young feller—references?"
"Mrs. Trapes, I have none—except my face. But you have very sharp eyes; look at me well. Do I strike you as a rogue or a thief?"
Here Spike, chancing to catch his eye, blushed painfully, while Mr. Ravenslee continued: