dows and had not as yet wiped off the soap.
"If you decide to take the room, I'll send my daughter right up to finish the windows," she offered. And from the regions below Harold could hear a piano being played with a light, deft touch. In that moment the bargain was as good as made.
The price was three dollars a week. He would have considered it cheap at twice that.
The lady of the house, he learned, was named Sayre—Mrs. Sayre. The daughter, then—if indeed she was the daughter—was Peggy Sayre. It struck him as a very nice name for a very nice girl.
When the landlady had departed, Harold proceeded to pull off his sweater and make himself at home. He gazed down at his shirt and discovered that it was a mess. Not only was it covered with splotches of dirt, but several bad rents marred its appearance. That kitten! Harold walked over to the bureau in search of a pin with which to effect temporary repairs. An empty pin cushion met his eye. And, as fate would have it, the cushion was in the shape of a kitten. Harold vexedly picked it up and thrust it roughly into the bureau drawer.
He would have to mend those holes. He remembered that his mother had particularly warned him to take care of his clothes,
