“True, certain monies were expended, Mrs. Trapes.”

“They must ha’ cost you well nigh a dollar-fifty, I reckon?”

“They did!” nodded Mr. Ravenslee, smiling.

“My land!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, and vanished again.

Mr. Ravenslee was sighing over a hideously striped shirt when Mrs. Trapes was back again, flourishing a very large tablespoon.

“Mr. Geoffrey,” said she, “it’s nigh forty years since any one bought me a box o’ chocolates!  An’ now they look so cute all done up in them gold an’ silver wrappings as I don’t wanter eat ’em—­seems a sin, it do.  But—­Mr. Geoffrey I—­I’d like to—­thank ye—­” and lo, she was gone again!

Mr. Ravenslee had just pitched the striped shirt out of the window when behold, Mrs. Trapes was back yet once more, this time grasping a much battered but more bepolished dish cover.

“Mr. Geoffrey,” said she, “I ain’t good at thankin’ folks, no, I ain’t much on gratitood—­never having had much to gratify over—­but them candies is goin’ to be consoomed slow an’ reverent and in a proper sperrit o’ gratitood.  And now if you’re ready to eat your supper, your supper’s a-waitin’ to be ate!”

So saying, she led the way into the parlour, where upon a snowy cloth, in a dish tastefully garnished with fried tomatoes, the English mutton chop reposed, making the very most of itself; the which Mr. Ravenslee forthwith proceeded to attack with surprising appetite and gusto.

“Is it tender?” enquired Mrs. Trapes anxiously.  “Heaven pity that butcher if it ain’t!  Is it tasty, kind of?”

“It’s delicious,” nodded her lodger.  “Really, Hell’s Kitchen seems to suit me; I eat and sleep like a new man!”

“So you ain’t lived here long, Mr. Geoffrey?” queried Mrs. Trapes, eagle-eyed.

“Not long enough to—­er—­sigh for pastures new.  Don’t go, Mrs. Trapes, I love to hear folks talk; sit down and tell me tales of dead kings and—­er—­I mean, converse of our neighbours, will you?”

“I will so, an’ thank ye kindly, Mr. Geoffrey, if you don’t mind me sucking a occasional candy?”

“Pray do, Mrs. Trapes,” he said heartily; whereupon, having fetched her chocolates, Mrs. Trapes ensconced herself in the easy chair and opening the box, viewed its contents with glistening eyes.

“You’re an Englishman, ain’t you?” she enquired after a while, munching luxuriously.

“No, but my mother was born in England.”

“You don’t say!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes.  “So was I—­born in the Old Kent Road, Mr. Geoffrey.  I came over to N’ York thirty long years ago as cook general to Hermy Chesterton’s ma.  When she went and married again, I left her an’ got married myself to Trapes—­a foreman, Mr. Geoffrey, with a noble ’eart as ’ad wooed me long!” Here Mrs. Trapes opened the candy box again and, after long and careful deliberation, selected a chocolate with gentle, toil-worn fingers, and putting it in her mouth, sighed her approbation.  “They sure are good!” she murmured.  “But talkin’ o’ Hermy Chesterton’s ma,” she went on after a blissful interval, “I been wondering where you came to meet that b’y Arthur?”