"Heard you had a room to rent," he said, vaguely. "Nice and quiet back here." He looked about him with a dull but satisfied air and stroked the big black tom cat in his arms.
"It's three dollars a week, mister," Temperance had said severely. "That's just for bed and breakfast. I don't do no laundry, and I don't like cats. Besides there hasn't ever been a man in my house, and I don't think there ever will be." She banged her feather duster against the peeling porch rail.
"That's all right," the man said, "Tommy and I ain't particular."
"Oh, so you ain't particular," she mocked. "Well listen here my good man. You'd better be particular when you crawl into my best bed."
"I don't want to sleep in your bed. I want to sleep by myself."
"Don't get sassy or I'll bat you over the head with this feather duster," Temperance warned.
"All right, Sister," the man said. "All right. Are you going to rent me the room or ain't you?"
"I'll think about it," Temperance said. "Come in and have a chair but leave that filthy cat out of doors."
"It ain't a filthy cat," the man said. "Maybe in another life this cat was your grandmother." Temperance shuddered. The man stooped to come in through the door—his cat still safely in his arms. He slouched comfortably into a red plush easy chair and put his head back against the lace doily.
"Three dollars a week in advance," Temperance said. "And mind you I have a sick mother who mustn't be disturbed. She's bedfast and hard of hearing, and she'd probably have a relapse if she knew you was in the downstairs bedroom."