On Saturday afternoon he walked round to John Street, and from the corner of his eye, as he passed, stole a glance at No. 37.  He recognized the curtains at once, and, seeing that there was nobody in the room, leaned over the palings and peered at a card that stood on the window-sash: 

Furnishedapartments
for single young man
board if desired.

He walked away whistling, and after going a little way turned and passed it again.  He passed in all four times, and then, with an odd grin lurking at the corners of his mouth, strode up to the front door and knocked loudly.  He heard somebody moving about inside, and, more with the idea of keeping his courage up than anything else, gave another heavy knock at the door.  It was thrown open hastily, and the astonished face of his wife appeared before him.

“What do you want?” she inquired, sharply.

Mr. Hatchard raised his hat.  “Good-afternoon, ma’am,” he said, politely.

“What do you want?” repeated his wife.

“I called,” said Mr. Hatchard, clearing his throat—­“I called about the bill in the window.”

[Illustration:  “I called about the bill in the window.”]

Mrs. Hatchard clutched at the door-post.

“Well?” she gasped.

“I’d like to see the rooms,” said the other.

“But you ain’t a single young man,” said his wife, recovering.

“I’m as good as single,” said Mr. Hatchard.  “I should say, better.”

“You ain’t young,” objected Mrs. Hatchard.  “I’m three years younger than what you are,” said Mr. Hatchard, dispassionately.

His wife’s lips tightened and her hand closed on the door; Mr. Hatchard put his foot in.

“If you don’t want lodgers, why do you put a bill up?” he inquired.

“I don’t take the first that comes,” said his wife.

“I’ll pay a week in advance,” said Mr. Hatchard, putting his hand in his pocket.  “Of course, if you’re afraid of having me here—­afraid o’ giving way to tenderness, I mean——­”

“Afraid?” choked Mrs. Hatchard.  “Tenderness!  I—­I——­”

“Just a matter o’ business,” continued her husband; “that’s my way of looking at it—­that’s a man’s way.  I s’pose women are different.  They can’t——­”

“Come in,” said Mrs. Hatchard, breathing hard Mr. Hatchard obeyed, and clapping a hand over his mouth ascended the stairs behind her.  At the top she threw open the door of a tiny bedroom, and stood aside for him to enter.  Mr. Hatchard sniffed critically.

“Smells rather stuffy,” he said, at last.

“You needn’t have it,” said his wife, abruptly.  “There’s plenty of other fish in the sea.”

“Yes; and I expect they’d stay there if they saw this room,” said the other.

“Don’t think I want you to have it; because I don’t,” said Mrs. Hatchard, making a preliminary movement to showing him downstairs.