lings a week, sir--with attendance, of course."

"Any extras?"

"The lamp, sir, is eighteenpence a week; and the kitchen fire, if the
gentleman wishes to dine at home, two shillings."

"And fire?"

"Sixpence a scuttle, sir, I charge for coals."

"It's rather a small scuttle."

The landlady bridles a little. "The usual size, I think, sir." One
presumes there is a special size in coal-scuttles made exclusively for
lodging-house keepers.

I agree that while I am about it I may as well see the other room,
the third floor back. The landlady opens the door for me, but remains
herself on the landing. She is a stout lady, and does not wish to dwarf
the apartment by comparison. The arrangement here does not allow of your
ignoring the bed. It is the life and soul of the room, and it
declines to efface itself. Its only possible rival is the washstand,
straw-coloured; with staring white basin and jug, together with other
appurtenances. It glares defiantly from its corner. "I know I'm small,"
it seems to say; "but I'm very useful; and I won't be ignored."
The remaining furniture consists of a couple of chairs--there is no
hypocrisy about them: they are not easy and they do not pretend to be
easy; a small chest of light-painted drawers before the window, with
white china handles, upon which is a tiny looking-glass; and, occupying
the entire remaining space, after allowing three square feet for the
tenant, when he arrives, an attenuated four-legged table apparently
home-made. The only ornament in the room is, suspended above the
fireplace, a funeral card, framed in beer corks. As the corpse
introduced by the ancient Egyptians into their banquets, it is hung
there perhaps to remind the occupant of the apartment that the luxuries
and allurements of life have their end; or maybe it consoles him in
despondent moments with the reflection that after all he might be worse
off.

The rent of this room is three-and-sixpence a week, also including
attendance; lamp, as for the first floor, eighteen-pence; but kitchen
fire a shilling.

"But why should kitchen fire for the first floor be two shillings, and
for this only one?"

"Well, as a rule, sir, the first floor wants more cooking done."

You are quite right, my dear lady, I was forgetting. The gentleman
in the third floor back! cooking for him is not a great tax upon the
kitchen fire. His breakfast, it is what, madam, we call plain, I think.
His lunch he takes out. You may see hi