“They might suit me,” said Mr. Hatchard, musingly, as he peeped in at the sitting-room door.  “I shouldn’t be at home much.  I’m a man that’s fond of spending his evenings out.”

Mrs. Hatchard, checking a retort, eyed him grimly.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said, slowly; “but then I’ve seen a good many.  How much are you asking?”

“Seven shillings a week,” replied his wife.  “With breakfast, tea, and supper, a pound a week.”

Mr. Hatchard nearly whistled, but checked himself just in time.

“I’ll give it a trial,” he said, with an air of unbearable patronage.

Mrs. Hatchard hesitated.

“If you come here, you quite understand it’s on a business footing,” she said.

“O’ course,” said the other, with affected surprise.  “What do you think I want it on?”

“You come here as a stranger, and I look after you as a stranger,” continued his wife.

“Certainly,” said the other.  “I shall be made more comfortable that way, I’m sure.  But, of course, if you’re afraid, as I said before, of giving way to tender——­”

“Tender fiddlesticks!” interrupted his wife, flushing and eying him angrily.

“I’ll come in and bring my things at nine o’clock to-night,” said Mr. Hatchard.  “I’d like the windows open and the rooms aired a bit.  And what about the sheets?”

“What about them?” inquired his wife.

“Don’t put me in damp sheets, that’s all,” said Mr. Hatchard.  “One place I was at——­”

He broke off suddenly.

“Well!” said his wife, quickly.

“Was very particular about them,” said Mr. Hatchard, recovering.  “Well, good-afternoon to you, ma’am.”

“I want three weeks in advance,” said his wife.  “Three—­” exclaimed the other.  “Three weeks in advance?  Why——­”

“Those are my terms,” said Mrs. Hatchard.  “Take ’em or leave ’em.  P’r’aps it would be better if you left ’em.”

Mr. Hatchard looked thoughtful, and then with obvious reluctance took his purse from one pocket and some silver from another, and made up the required sum.

“And what if I’m not comfortable here?” he inquired, as his wife hastily pocketed the money.  “It’ll be your own fault,” was the reply.

Mr. Hatchard looked dubious, and, in a thoughtful fashion, walked downstairs and let himself out.  He began to think that the joke was of a more complicated nature than he had expected, and it was not without forebodings that he came back at nine o’clock that night accompanied by a boy with his baggage.

His gloom disappeared the moment the door opened.  The air inside was warm and comfortable, and pervaded by an appetizing smell of cooked meats.  Upstairs a small bright fire and a neatly laid supper-table awaited his arrival.

He sank into an easy-chair and rubbed his hands.  Then his gaze fell on a small bell on the table, and opening the door he rang for supper.