“Says ‘e’s been recommended, by a friend.”
“By whom?”
“By a friend. ‘E didn’t say no name.”
Mrs. Pennycherry pondered. “He’s not the funny sort, is he?”
Not that sort at all. Mary Jane was sure of it.
Mrs. Pennycherry ascended the stairs still pondering. As she entered the room the stranger rose and bowed. Nothing could have been simpler than the stranger’s bow, yet there came with it to Mrs. Pennycherry a rush of old sensations long forgotten. For one brief moment Mrs. Pennycherry saw herself an amiable well-bred lady, widow of a solicitor: a visitor had called to see her. It was but a momentary fancy. The next instant Reality reasserted itself. Mrs. Pennycherry, a lodging-house keeper, existing precariously upon a daily round of petty meannesses, was prepared for contest with a possible new boarder, who fortunately looked an inexperienced young gentleman.
“Someone has recommended me to you,” began Mrs. Pennycherry; “may I ask who?”
But the stranger waved the question aside as immaterial.
“You might not remember—him,” he smiled. “He thought that I should do well to pass the few months I am given—that I have to be in London, here. You can take me in?”
Mrs. Pennycherry thought that she would be able to take the stranger in.