"What a queer smell, Ruth!" murmured Phyllis, sniffing the air critically and speaking low, because the sight and sound of some one moving about, opening and shutting drawers in the back parlor, were distinctly visible and audible through the plain places in the pattern of the ground-glass panels of the folding doors.
"Boarding-house!" said Ruth, laconically. "It's the regular odor; ghosts of Christmases—past Christmas dinners, I mean—Fourth of July, and no particular days besides."
At this moment the doors slid back, revealing a folding-bed, let down and unmade, and a gaunt figure in a worn black silk skirt and lavender waist stood confessed.
"We are looking for board for four ladies—a widow with two daughters and a niece," said Ruth, making herself spokeswoman. "You take boarders, I believe? We saw your advertisement in yesterday's 'Herald.'"
"We receive a few guests," replied the gaunt person, correctively. "We prefer gentlemen."
"Yes; we knew that on general principles," said Ruth, easily; "but these are ladies. What rooms have you?"
"A hall bedroom on the second and two square rooms on the third," returned the gaunt one. "Will you look at them?"
"If you please," said Jessamy, and they were conducted up the dingy stairs to the third floor. The floors were covered alike with red Brussels carpet; the wall-papers—gray with gilt figures in one, brown with red roses in the other—were alike tarnished and stained. A marble-topped bureau of black walnut, a bedstead, and three chairs, with one rocker, all of the same expressionless wood, furnished each room.
"We could never put up with this, Ruth; don't delay here," whispered Jessamy, but Ruth shook her head. "What do you ask for these rooms?" she inquired.