And through that mist Mary saw Roger Poole!  He was leaning forward a little, and there was about him the air of a man who waited.

She spoke impetuously.

“Mr. Poole,” she said, “please——­”

There was not a trace of awkwardness, not a hint of self-consciousness in his manner as he answered her.

“May I sit here?” he asked.  “You see, my pussy cat holds me, and as I shall tell you about a cat, she gives the touch of local color.”

And then he began, his right hand resting on the gray cat’s head, his left upon his knee.

He used no gestures, yet as he went on, the room became still with the stillness of a captured audience.  Here was no stumbling elocution, but a controlled and perfect method, backed by a voice which soared and sang and throbbed and thrilled—­the voice either of a great orator, or of a great actor.

The story that he told was of Whittington and his cat.  But it was not the old nursery rhyme.  He gave it as it is written by one of England’s younger poets.  Since he lacked the time for it all, he sketched the theme, rounding it out here and there with a verse—­and it seemed to Mary that, as he spoke, all the bells of London boomed!

“‘Flos Mercatorum,’ moaned the bell of All Hallowes, ‘There was he an orphan, O, a little lad, alone!’ ‘Then we all sang,’ echoed happy St. Saviour’s, ‘Called him and lured him, and made him our own.’”

And now they saw the little lad stealing toward the big city, saw all the color and glow as he entered upon its enchantment, saw his meeting with the green-gowned Alice, saw him cold and hungry, faint and footsore, saw him aswoon on a door-step.

  “‘Alice,’ roared a voice, and then, O like a lilied angel,
  Leaning from the lighted door, a fair face unafraid,
  Leaning over Red Rose Lane, O, leaning out of Paradise
  Drooped the sudden glory of his green-gowned maid!”

Touching now a lighter note, his voice laughed through the lovely lines; of the ship which was to sail beyond the world; of how each man staked such small wealth as he possessed; “for in those days Marchaunt adventurers shared with their prentices the happy chance of each new venture.”

But Whittington had nothing to give.  “Not a groat,” he tells sweet Alice.  “I staked my last groat in a cat!”

  “‘Ay, but we need a cat,’
  The Captain said.  So when the painted ship
  Sailed through a golden sunrise down the Thames,
  A gray tail waved upon the misty poop,
  And Whittington had his venture on the seas!”

The ringing words brought tumultuous applause.  Pittiwitz, startled, sat up and blinked.  People bent to each other, asking:  “Who is this Roger Poole?” Under his breath Barry was saying, boyishly, “Gee!” He might still wonder about Mary’s lodger, he would never again look down on him.  And Delilah Jeliffe sitting next to Barry murmured, “I’ve heard that voice before—­but where?”