Passing of the Third Floor Back. Jerome K. Jerome

beg your pardon," said the stranger; "but would you mind telling me my way to Bloomsbury Square."

      "This is Bloomsbury Square," explained the constable; "leastways round the corner is. What number might you be wanting?"

      The stranger took from the ticket pocket of his tightly buttoned overcoat a piece of paper, unfolded it and read it out: "Mrs. Pennycherry. Number Forty-eight."

      "Round to the left," instructed him the constable; "fourth house. Been recommended there?"

      "By—by a friend," replied the stranger. "Thank you very much."

      "Ah," muttered the constable to himself; "guess you won't be calling him that by the end of the week, young—"

      "Funny," added the constable, gazing after the retreating figure of the stranger. "Seen plenty of the other sex as looked young behind and old in front. This cove looks young in front and old behind. Guess he'll look old all round if he stops long at mother Pennycherry's: stingy old cat."

      Constables whose beat included Bloomsbury Square had their reasons for not liking Mrs. Pennycherry. Indeed it might have been difficult to discover any human being with reasons for liking that sharp-featured lady. Maybe the keeping of second-rate boarding houses in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury does not tend to develop the virtues of generosity and amiability.

      Meanwhile the stranger, proceeding upon his way, had rung the bell of Number Forty-eight. Mrs. Pennycherry, peeping from the area and catching a glimpse, above the railings, of a handsome if somewhat effeminate masculine face, hastened to readjust her widow's cap before the looking-glass while directing Mary Jane to show the stranger, should he prove a problematical boarder, into the dining-room, and to light the gas.

      "And don't stop gossiping, and don't you take it upon yourself to answer questions. Say I'll be up in a minute," were Mrs. Pennycherry's further instructions, "and mind you hide your hands as much as you can."

      ***

      "What are you grinning at?" demanded Mrs. Pennycherry, a couple of minutes later, of the dingy Mary Jane.

      "Wasn't grinning," explained the meek Mary Jane, "was only smiling to myself."

      "What at?"