“Mulligan?” enquired Ravenslee.

“He’s raised the rents on us, Mr. Geoffrey,” sighed Hermione.

“Raised the rents?” said Ravenslee, forgetting to lounge.

“Sure!” nodded Mrs. Trapes grimly.  “I guess he thinks we live too easy an’ luxoorious, so he’s boosted it up a dollar per.  A dollar a week don’t sound a whole lot, p’raps, but it sure takes some gettin’; folks expects a deal o’ scrubbin’ an’ sewin’ an’ slavin’ for a dollar—­yes, sir.”

“We shall have to work a little harder, that’s all, Ann dear.”

“Harder?  I guess you work hard enough for two—­an’ who gets the benefit?  Why, Mulligan does.  Oh, it’s a great comfort t’ remember the flames of hell, sometimes.  Lord, when I think how we have t’ slave t’ make enough t’ live—­”

“There are others worse than us, Ann.”

“Why, yes, there’s poor Mrs. Finlay; she’s got to go, an’ her husband paralysed!  There’s little Mrs. Bowker sewed herself pretty well blind t’ keep her home together—­she’s got to go.  There’s Mrs. Sims with all those children, and the—­but there, who cares for the likes o’ them—­who cares, eh, Mr. Geoffrey?  An’ what might you be dreamin’ over this time?” she enquired, eyeing Ravenslee’s long figure a little contemptuously, for he had fallen to lounging again, sleepy eyes half closed.

“I was thinking what a lot of interest we might find in this busy world—­if we only would take the trouble to look for it!” he answered.  “The fool who complains that his life is empty is blind and deaf and—­damnably thick—­er—­pardon me, I—­er nearly got excited.”

“Excited?” snorted Mrs. Trapes, “I’d pay good money t’ see you like that!”

“You see, I had an idea—­a rather original idea!”

“Then take care of it, Mr. Geoffrey; nurse it careful, and we’ll have ye doin’ bigger things than push a peanut barrer—­peanuts!”

“Mrs. Trapes, I’ve got a stranglehold on that idea, for it is rather brilliant.”

“There’s that kettle b’ilin’ at last, thank goodness!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, crossing to the stove, “tea’s a luxury, I suppose, but—­oh, drat Mulligan, anyway!”

So Mrs. Trapes brewed the tea, while Ravenslee gazed at Hermione again, at her shapely arms, her dimpled elbows, her preoccupied face—­a face so serenely, so utterly unaware of his regard, of course, until he chanced to look away, and then—­Hermione stole a glance at him.

“There, my dear,” said Mrs. Trapes after a while, “there’s a cup o’ tea as is a cup o’ tea, brewed jest on the b’ile, in a hot pot, and drawed to perfection!  Set right down an’ drink it, slow an’ deliberate.  Tea ain’t meant to be swallowed down careless, like a man does his beer!  An’ why?” demanded Mrs. Trapes, as they sipped the fragrant beverage, all three, “why ain’t you out with your precious—­peanuts, Mr. Geoffrey?”

Ravenslee set down his cup and turned to Hermione.

“Mrs. Trapes has told you, I think, that I am become—­er—­an itinerant vendor of the ubiquitous peanut—­”