"I can't think how you can bring yourself to speak to him!" said Denis. He was one of those who find it hard to understand how others can act differently from themselves. Gardiner laughed more than ever.
"We can't all be idealists, my good Denis. I've my bread and butter to earn. I had all my fine feelings knocked out of me long ago. Yes, Miss Marvin, what is it?"
Miss Marvin, a comely, capable woman of forty, seemed a little flustered.
"I'm sorry to disturb you, sir, but it's the gentleman in No. 18. He's been at me about his room, and I think"—her voice dropped—"I think he isn't quite himself. If you wouldn't mind speaking to him—"
"What the devil do you mean by putting me to sleep in a hay-loft?"
Miss Marvin jumped, for the gentleman from No. 18 had followed uninvited and was talking over her shoulder. He stretched an arm across the door to bar her escape. "No, you don't. I don't know which of you two is responsible here, but I am going to have an answer out of somebody. I pay a decent price, I expect a decent room, and you put me in a garret that stinks like a rabbit hutch, and nearly brains me if I walk across the floor! Why, I wouldn't put a nigger to sleep in such a hole! What do you mean by it, I want to know?"
"One moment," said Gardiner. "Miss Marvin, may I trouble you for that register? Thanks. Here we are. I had to give you No. 18 because it was absolutely the last unoccupied room in the house. If you look, you can see for yourself that I'm speaking the truth."
A little checked, Trent bent his handsome head over the page. He was not drunk; but he had been drinking. Gardiner, sitting by the window on the far side of the table, leaned across, pointing out the entries with a small, brown, well-kept forefinger.
"These are my best rooms. They're occupied now by a Leeds fishmonger, but I can't very well turn him out for that. If I'd known you were coming—but as it was I simply had to put you where I could. There's not a corner anywhere else."
"The place stinks," said Trent.