Suddenly said Mrs. Arty, “And now you would like to look at that room, Mr. Wrenn, unless I’m wrong.”

“Why—­uh—­yes, I guess I would like to.”

“Come with me, child,” she said, in pretended severity.  “Tom, you take my hand in the game, and don’t let me hear you’ve been bidding ten on no suit without the joker.”  She led Mr. Wrenn to the settee hat-rack in the hall.  “The third-floor-back will be vacant in two weeks, Mr. Wrenn.  We can go up and look at it now if you’d like to.  The man who has it now works nights—­he’s some kind of a head waiter at Rector’s, or something like that, and he’s out till three or four.  Come.”

When he saw that third-floor-back, the room that the smart people at Mrs. Arty’s were really willing to let him have, he felt like a man just engaged.  It was all in soft green—­grass-green matting, pale-green walls, chairs of white wicker with green cushions; the bed, a couch with a denim cover and four sofa pillows.  It gave him the impression of being a guest on Fifth Avenue.

“It’s kind of a plain room,” Mrs. Arty said, doubtfully.  “The furniture is kind of plain.  But my head-waiter man—­it was furnished for a friend of his—­he says he likes it better than any other room in the house.  It is comfortable, and you get lots of sunlight and—­”

“I’ll take—­How much is it, please, with board?”

She spoke with a take-it-or-leave-it defiance.  “Eleven-fifty a week.”

It was a terrible extravagance; much like marrying a sick woman on a salary of ten a week, he reflected; nine-teen minus eleven-fifty left him only seven-fifty for clothes and savings and things and—­but—­” I’ll take it,” he said, hastily.  He was frightened at himself, but glad, very glad.  He was to live in this heaven; he was going to be away from that Zapp woman; and Nelly Croubel—­Was she engaged to some man? he wondered.

Mrs. Arty was saying:  “First, I want to ask you some questions, though.  Please sit down.”  As she creaked into one of the wicker chairs she suddenly changed from the cigarette-rolling chaffing card-player to a woman dignified, reserved, commanding.  “Mr. Wrenn, you see, Miss Proudfoot and Miss Croubel are on this floor.  Miss Proudfoot can take care of herself, all right, but Nelly is such a trusting little thing—­She’s like my daughter.  She’s the only one I’ve ever given a reduced rate to—­and I swore I never would to anybody!...  Do you—­uh—­drink—­drink much, I mean?”

Nelly on this floor!  Near him!  Now!  He had to have this room.  He forced himself to speak directly.

“I know how you mean, Mrs. Ferrard.  No, I don’t drink much of any—­hardly at all; just a glass of beer now and then; sometimes I don’t even touch that a week at a time.  And I don’t gamble and—­and I do try to keep—­er—­straight—­and all that sort of thing.”

“That’s good.”

“I work for the Souvenir and Art Novelty Company on Twenty-eighth Street.  If you want to call them up I guess the manager’ll give me a pretty good recommend.”