"To-night!" The penciled eyebrows lifted in surprise. "And your baggage?"
"We came to New York without any," Matilda lied desperately. "We're—we're going to buy some things here."
"Naturally, then, you expect to pay in advance."
"Ah—er—at least a deposit."
"One room or two?"
"One." One would come cheaper.
"Excuse me, Mr. Pyecroft," she called again to the clergyman. "This way." And she collected her silken skirt, and swished up two flights of stairs and into a bedroom at the back, where she turned on the light. "A very comfortable room," she went on in the voice of a tired and very superior auctioneer. "Just vacated by a Wall Street broker and his wife; very well-connected people. Bed and couch; easy-chairs; running hot and cold water. And for it I'm making a special summer rate, with board, of only twenty-five dollars a week for two."
"We'll take it," said Matilda.
"Very well. Now the deposit—how much can you pay?"