“My friend, Mr. Brent, is not married,” said Signor Orlando waggishly.
Phil laughed.
“You will have your shoke, Signor Orlando,” said Mrs. Schlessinger.
“What is the price of this room?” asked Phil.
“Three dollars a week, Mr. Prent, I ought to have four, but since you are a steady young gentleman——”
“How does she know that?” Phil wondered.
“Since you are a steady young gentleman, and a friend of Signor Orlando, I will not ask you full price.”
“That is more than I can afford to pay,” said Phil, shaking his head.
“I think you had better show Mr. Brent the hall bedroom over mine,” suggested the signor.
Mrs. Schlessinger toiled up another staircase, the two new acquaintances following her. She threw open the door of one of those depressing cells known in New York as a hall bedroom. It was about five feet wide and eight feet long, and was nearly filled up by a cheap bedstead, covered by a bed about two inches thick, and surmounted at the head by a consumptive-looking pillow. The paper was torn from the walls in places. There was one rickety chair, and a wash-stand which bore marks of extreme antiquity.