“Philip Brent,” suggested our hero.
“Just so—Philip Brent.”
“I am glad to see Mr. Prent,” said the landlady.
“And is he an actor like you, Signor Orlando?”
“Not yet. We don't know what may happen. But he comes on business, Mrs. Schlessinger. He wants a room.”
The landlady brightened up. She had two rooms vacant, and a new lodger was a godsend.
“I vill show Mr. Prent what rooms I haf,” she said. “Come up-stairs, Mr. Prent.”
The good woman toiled up the staircase panting, for she was asthmatic, and Phil followed. The interior of the house was as dingy as the exterior, and it was quite dark on the second landing.
She threw open the door of a back room, which, being lower than the hall, was reached by a step.
“There!” said she, pointing to the faded carpet, rumpled bed, and cheap pine bureau, with the little six-by-ten looking-glass surmounting it. “This is a peautiful room for a single gentleman, or even for a man and his wife.”