Mr. Carter had two connecting rooms on the second floor, one of which he used as a bed-chamber.  The furniture was handsome and costly, and Phil, who was not used to city houses, thought it luxurious.

Phil washed his face and hands, and brushed his hair.  Then a bell rang, and following his new friend, he went down to lunch.

Lunch was set out in the front basement.  When Phil and Mr. Carter entered the room a lady was standing by the fire, and beside her was a boy of about Phil’s age.  The lady was tall and slender, with light-brown hair and cold gray eyes.

“Lavinia,” said Mr. Carter, “I have brought a young friend with me to lunch.”

“So I see,” answered the lady.  “Has he been here before?”

“No; he is a new acquaintance.”

“I would speak to him if I knew his name.”

“His name is——­”

Here the old gentleman hesitated, for in truth he had forgotten.

“Philip Brent.”

“You may sit down here, Mr. Brent,” said Mrs. Pitkin, for this was the lady’s name.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“And so you made my uncle’s acquaintance this morning?” she continued, herself taking a seat at the head of the table.

“Yes; he was of service to me,” answered Mr. Carter for him.  “I had lost my balance, and should have had a heavy fall if Philip had not come to my assistance.”

“He was very kind, I am sure,” said Mrs. Pitkin, but her tone was very cold.

“Philip,” said Mr. Carter, “this is my grand-nephew, Alonzo Pitkin.”

He indicated the boy already referred to.

“How do you do?” said Alonzo, staring at Philip not very cordially.

“Very well, thank you,” answered Philip politely.

“Where do you live?” asked Alonzo, after a moment’s hesitation.

“In Fifth Street.”

“That’s near the Bowery, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

The boy shrugged his shoulders and exchanged a significant look with his mother.

Fifth Street was not a fashionable street—­indeed quite the reverse, and Phil’s answer showed that he was a nobody.  Phil himself had begun to suspect that he was unfashionably located, but he felt that until his circumstances improved he might as well remain where he was.

But, though he lived in an unfashionable street, it could not be said that Phil, in his table manners, showed any lack of good breeding.  He seemed quite at home at Mrs. Pitkin’s table, and in fact acted with greater propriety than Alonzo, who was addicted to fast eating and greediness.

“Couldn’t you walk home alone, Uncle Oliver?” asked Mrs. Pitkin presently.

“Yes.”

“Then it was a pity to trouble Mr. Brent to come with you.”

“It was no trouble,” responded Philip promptly, though he suspected that it was not consideration for him that prompted the remark.

“Yes, I admit that I was a little selfish in taking up my young friend’s time,” said the old gentleman cheerfully; “but I infer, from what he tells me, that it is not particularly valuable just now.”