of the common lodging-house.
"The unusual clause," he continued, "in your announcement, particularly
struck me. 'This,' I said, 'is the place for Mr. Jones.' You are
yourself, sir, a professional gentleman?" concluded the visitor, looking
keenly in Somerset's face.

"I am an artist," replied the young man lightly.

"And these," observed the other, taking a side glance through the open
door of the dining-room, which they were then passing, "these are some
of your works. Very remarkable." And he again and still more sharply
peered into the countenance of the young man.

Somerset, unable to suppress a blush, made the more haste to lead his
visitor upstairs and to display the apartments.

"Excellent," observed the stranger, as he looked from one of the back
windows. "Is that a mews behind, sir? Very good. Well, sir: see here. My
friend will take your drawing-room floor; he will sleep in the back
drawing-room; his nurse, an excellent Irish widow, will attend on all
his wants and occupy a garret; he will pay you the round sum of ten
dollars a week; and you, on your part, will engage to receive no other
lodger? I think that fair."

Somerset had scarcely words in which to clothe his gratitude and joy.

"Agreed," said the other; "and to spare you trouble, my friend will
bring some men with him to make the changes. You will find him a
retiring inmate, sir; receives but few, and rarely leaves the house
except at night."

"Since I have been in this house," returned Somerset, "I have myself,
unless it were to fetch beer, rarely gone abroad except in the evening.
But a man," he added, "must have some amusement."

An hour was then agreed on; the gentleman departed; and Somerset sat
down to compute in English money the value of the figure named. The
result of this investigation filled him with amazement and disgust; but
it was now too late; nothing remained but to endure; and he awaited the
arrival of his tenant, still trying, by various arithmetical expedients,
to obtain a more favourable quotation for the dollar. With the approach
of dusk, however, his impatience drove him once more to the front
balcony. The night fell, mild and airless; the lamps shone around the
central darkness of the garden; and through the tall grove of trees that
intervened, many warmly illuminated windows on the farther side of the
square told their tale of white napery, choice wine, and genial
hospitality. The stars were already thickening overhead,