Looking out of the front window, into the decorum of Grove Street, Mrs. Brashear could hardly credit the testimony of her glorified eyes. Could the occupant of the taxi indeed be Mr. Banneker whom, a few months before and most sorrowfully, she had sacrificed to the stern respectability of the house? And was it possible, as the very elegant trunk inscribed “E.B.—New York City” indicated, that he was coming back as a lodger? For the first time in her long and correct professional career, the landlady felt an unqualified bitterness in the fact that all her rooms were occupied.
The occupant of the taxi jumped out and ran lightly up the steps.
“How d’you do, Mrs. Brashear. Am I still excommunicated?”
“Oh, Mr. Banneker! I’m so glad to see you. If I could tell you how often I’ve blamed myself—”
“Let’s forget all that. The point is I’ve come back.”
“Oh, dear! I do hate not to take you in. But there isn’t a spot.”
“Who’s got my old room?”
“Mr. Hainer.”
“Hainer? Let’s turn him out.”
“I would in a minute,” declared the ungrateful landlady to whom Mr. Hainer had always been a model lodger. “But the law—”