"I'm as good as single," said Mr. Hatchard. "I should say, better."

"You ain't young," objected Mrs. Hatchard. "I'm three years younger than
what you are," said Mr. Hatchard, dispassionately.

His wife's lips tightened and her hand closed on the door; Mr. Hatchard
put his foot in.

"If you don't want lodgers, why do you put a bill up?" he inquired.

"I don't take the first that comes," said his wife.

"I'll pay a week in advance," said Mr. Hatchard, putting his hand in his
pocket. "Of course, if you're afraid of having me here--afraid o' giving
way to tenderness, I mean----"

"Afraid?" choked Mrs. Hatchard. "Tenderness! I--I----"

"Just a matter o' business," continued her husband; "that's my way of
looking at it--that's a man's way. I s'pose women are different. They
can't----"

"Come in," said Mrs. Hatchard, breathing hard Mr. Hatchard obeyed, and
clapping a hand over his mouth ascended the stairs behind her. At the
top she threw open the door of a tiny bedroom, and stood aside for him to
enter. Mr. Hatchard sniffed critically.

"Smells rather stuffy," he said, at last.