"This room will suit me--er--admirably."

Mrs. Trapes started slightly, opened her grim lips, shut them again,
and--wriggled her elbows.

"Yes, indeed," continued Mr. Ravenslee pleasantly, "I like this room--so
nice and bright, like the rug and wall paper--especially the rug. Yes, I
like the rug and the--er--stuffed owl in the corner!" and he nodded to a
shapeless, moth-eaten something under a glass case against the wall.

Mrs. Trapes wriggled her elbows again and, glaring still, spoke
harsh-voiced.

"Young feller, that owl's a parrot!"

"A parrot--of course!" assented Mr. Ravenslee gently, "and a very fine
parrot too! Then the wax flowers and the antimacassars! What would a
home be without them?" said he, dreamy-eyed and grave. "I think I shall
be very bright and cheerful here, my dear Mrs. Trapes."

Mrs. Trapes swallowed audibly, stared at Spike until he writhed, and
finally bored her sharp eyes into Mr. Ravenslee again.

"Young man," said she, "what name?"

"I think our friend Spike has informed you that I am sometimes called
Geoffrey. Mrs. Trapes, our friend Spike told the truth."

"Young feller," she demanded, "'oo are you and--what?"