“Wouldn’t he like my table, too?” inquired Mr. Hatchard, with bitter sarcasm.

His wife said that she would inquire, and brought back word next day that Mr. Sadler, the new lodger, would like it.  It disappeared during Mr. Hatchard’s enforced absence at business, and a small bamboo table, weak in the joints, did duty in its stead.

The new lodger, a man of middle age with a ready tongue, was a success from the first, and it was only too evident that Mrs. Hatchard was trying her best to please him.  Mr. Hatchard, supping on bread and cheese, more than once left that wholesome meal to lean over the balusters and smell the hot meats going into Mr. Sadler.

“You’re spoiling him,” he said to Mrs. Hatchard, after the new lodger had been there a week.  “Mark my words—­he’ll get above himself.”

“That’s my look-out,” said his wife briefly.  “Don’t come to me if you get into trouble, that’s all,” said the other.

Mrs. Hatchard laughed derisively.  “You don’t like him, that’s what it is,” she remarked.  “He asked me yesterday whether he had offended you in any way.”

“Oh!  He did, did he?” snarled Mr. Hatchard.  “Let him keep himself to himself, and mind his own business.”

“He said he thinks you have got a bad temper,” continued his wife.  “He thinks, perhaps, it’s indigestion, caused by eating cheese for supper always.”

Mr. Hatchard affected not to hear, and, lighting his pipe, listened fer some time to the hum of conversation between his wife and Mr. Sadler below.  With an expression of resignation on his face that was almost saintly he knocked out his pipe at last and went to bed.

Half an hour passed, and he was still awake.  His wife’s voice had ceased, but the gruff tones of Mr. Sadler were still audible.  Then he sat up in bed and listened, as a faint cry of alarm and the sound of somebody rushing upstairs fell on his ears.  The next moment the door of his room burst open, and a wild figure, stumbling in the darkness, rushed over to the bed and clasped him in its arms.

“Help!” gasped his wile’s voice.  “Oh, Alfred!  Alfred!”

“Ma’am!” said Mr. Hatchard in a prim voice, as he struggled in vain to free himself.

“I’m so—­so—­fr-frightened!” sobbed Mrs. Hatchard.

“That’s no reason for coming into a lodger’s room and throwing your arms round his neck,” said her husband, severely.

“Don’t be stu-stu-stupid,” gasped Mrs. Hatchard.  “He—­he’s sitting downstairs in my room with a paper cap on his head and a fire-shovel in his hand, and he—­he says he’s the—­the Emperor of China.”

“He?  Who?” inquired her husband.

“Mr. Sad-Sadler,” replied Mrs. Hatchard, almost strangling him.  “He made me kneel in front o’ him and keep touching the floor with my head.”

The chair-bedstead shook in sympathy with Mr. Hatchard’s husbandly emotion.

“Well, it’s nothing to do with me,” he said at last.