She was awaiting them in her parlour, enthroned in her best easy chair, a chair of green velvet where purple flowers bloomed riotously, her feet firm-planted upon a hearthrug cunningly enwrought with salmon-pink sunflowers.  Bolt upright and stiff of back she sat, making the very utmost of her elbows, for her sleeves being rolled high (as was their wont) and her arms being folded within her apron, they projected themselves to left and right in highly threatening fashion.  Sphinx-like she sat, very silent and very still, while her sharp eyes roved over Mr. Ravenslee’s person from the toes of his boots to the dark hair that curled short and crisp above his brow.  Thus she looked him up and she looked him down, viewing each garment in turn; lastly, she lifted her gaze to his face and stared at him—­eye to eye.

And eye to eye Mr. Ravenslee, serene and calm as ever, met her look, while Spike, observing her granite-like expression and the fierce jut of her elbows, shuffled, and glanced toward the door.  But still Mrs. Trapes glared up at Mr. Ravenslee, and still Mr. Ravenslee glanced down at Mrs. Trapes wholly unabashed, nay—­he actually smiled, and, bowing his dark head, spoke in his easy, pleasant voice.

“A beautiful afternoon, Mrs. Trapes!”

Mrs. Trapes snorted.

“This room will suit me—­er—­admirably.”

Mrs. Trapes started slightly, opened her grim lips, shut them again, and—­wriggled her elbows.

“Yes, indeed,” continued Mr. Ravenslee pleasantly, “I like this room—­so nice and bright, like the rug and wall paper—­especially the rug.  Yes, I like the rug and the—­er—­stuffed owl in the corner!” and he nodded to a shapeless, moth-eaten something under a glass case against the wall.

Mrs. Trapes wriggled her elbows again and, glaring still, spoke harsh-voiced.

“Young feller, that owl’s a parrot!”

“A parrot—­of course!” assented Mr. Ravenslee gently, “and a very fine parrot too!  Then the wax flowers and the antimacassars!  What would a home be without them?” said he, dreamy-eyed and grave.  “I think I shall be very bright and cheerful here, my dear Mrs. Trapes.”

Mrs. Trapes swallowed audibly, stared at Spike until he writhed, and finally bored her sharp eyes into Mr. Ravenslee again.

“Young man,” said she, “what name?”

“I think our friend Spike has informed you that I am sometimes called Geoffrey.  Mrs. Trapes, our friend Spike told the truth.”

“Young feller,” she demanded, “’oo are you and—­what?”

“Mrs. Trapes,” he sighed, “I am a lonely wight, a wanderer in wild places, a waif, a stray, puffed hither and thither by a fate perverse—­”

“Talking o’ verses, you ain’t a poet, are you?” enquired Mrs. Trapes, “last poet as lodged wi’ me useter go to bed in ’is boots reg’lar!  Consequently I ain’t nowise drawed to poets—­”

Mr. Ravenslee laughed and shook his head.