Mrs. Bunting spoke in a civil, passionless voice.  It seemed too good to be true, this sudden coming of a possible lodger, and of a lodger who spoke in the pleasant, courteous way and voice which recalled to the poor woman her happy, far-off days of youth and of security.

“That sounds very suitable,” he said.  “Four rooms?  Well, perhaps I ought only to take two rooms, but, still, I should like to see all four before I make my choice.”

How fortunate, how very fortunate it was that Bunting had lit the gas!  But for that circumstance this gentleman would have passed them by.

She turned towards the staircase, quite forgetting in her agitation that the front door was still open; and it was the stranger whom she already in her mind described as “the lodger,” who turned and rather quickly walked down the passage and shut it.

“Oh, thank you, sir!” she exclaimed.  “I’m sorry you should have had the trouble.”

For a moment their eyes met.  “It’s not safe to leave a front door open in London,” he said, rather sharply.  “I hope you do not often do that.  It would be so easy for anyone to slip in.”

Mrs. Bunting felt rather upset.  The stranger had still spoken courteously, but he was evidently very much put out.

“I assure you, sir, I never leave my front door open,” she answered hastily.  “You needn’t be at all afraid of that!”

And then, through the closed door of the sitting-room, came the sound of Bunting coughing—­it was just a little, hard cough, but Mrs. Bunting’s future lodger started violently.

“Who’s that?” he said, putting out a hand and clutching her arm.  “Whatever was that?”

“Only my husband, sir.  He went out to buy a paper a few minutes ago, and the cold just caught him, I suppose.”

“Your husband—?” he looked at her intently, suspiciously.  “What —­what, may I ask, is your husband’s occupation?”

Mrs. Bunting drew herself up.  The question as to Bunting’s occupation was no one’s business but theirs.  Still, it wouldn’t do for her to show offence.  “He goes out waiting,” she said stiffly.  “He was a gentleman’s servant, sir.  He could, of course, valet you should you require him to do so.”

And then she turned and led the way up the steep, narrow staircase.

At the top of the first flight of stairs was what Mrs. Bunting, to herself, called the drawing-room floor.  It consisted of a sitting-room in front, and a bedroom behind.  She opened the door of the sitting-room and quickly lit the chandelier.

This front room was pleasant enough, though perhaps a little over-encumbered with furniture.  Covering the floor was a green carpet simulating moss; four chairs were placed round the table which occupied the exact middle of the apartment, and in the corner, opposite the door giving on to the landing, was a roomy, old-fashioned chiffonnier.

On the dark-green walls hung a series of eight engravings, portraits of early Victorian belles, clad in lace and tarletan ball dresses, clipped from an old Book of Beauty.  Mrs. Bunting was very fond of these pictures; she thought they gave the drawing-room a note of elegance and refinement.