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 npon 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.
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