had not yet stretched between
itself and the rest of New York that gauzy and iridescent curtain of
sprightly impropriety and sparkling intellectual naughtiness, since
faded to a lather tawdry pattern. An early pioneer of the Villager type,
emancipated of thought and speech, chancing upon No. 11 Grove, would
have despised it for its lack of atmosphere and its patent conservatism.
It did not go out into the highways and byways, seeking prospective
lodgers. It folded its hands and waited placidly for them to come. When
they came, it pondered them with care, catechized them tactfully, and
either rejected them with courteous finality or admitted them on
probation. Had it been given to self-exploitation, it could have boasted
that never had it harbored a bug or a scandal within its doors.

Now, on this filmy-soft April day it was nonplussed. A type new to its
experience was applying for a room, and Mrs. Brashear, who was not only
the proprietress, but, as it were, the familiar spirit and incarnation
of the institution, sat peering near-sightedly and in some perturbation
of soul at the phenomenon. He was young, which was against him, and of a
winning directness of manner, which was in his favor, and extremely good
to look at, which was potential of complications, and encased in
clothing of an uncompromising cut and neutral pattern (to wit; No. 45 T
370, "an ideal style for a young business man of affairs; neat,
impressive and dignified"), which was reassuring.

"My name is Banneker," he had said, immediately the door was opened to
him. "Can I get a room here?"

"There is a room vacant," admitted the spirit of the house unwillingly.

"I'd like to see it."

As he spoke, he was mounting the stairs; she must, perforce, follow. On
the third floor she passed him and led the way to a small, morosely
papered front room, almost glaringly clean.

"All right, if I can have a work-table in it and if it isn't too much,"
he said, after one comprehensive glance around.

"The price is five dollars a week."

Had Banneker but known it, this was rather high. The Brashear
rooming-house charged for its cleanliness, physical and moral. "Can I
move in at once?" he inquired.

"I don't know you nor anything about you, Mr. Banneker," she replied,
but not until they had descended the stairs and were in the cool, dim
parlor. At the moment of speaking, she raised a shade, as if to help in
the determination.

"Is that necessary? They didn't ask