“Come in!” said Peter Hope.  
Peter Hope was tall and thin, clean-shaven but for a pair of side whiskers close-cropped and terminating just below the ear, with hair of the kind referred to by sympathetic barbers as “getting a little thin on the top, sir,” but arranged with economy, that everywhere is poverty’s true helpmate.  About Mr. Peter Hope’s , which was white though somewhat , there was a self- that invariably arrested the attention of even the most casual observer.  Decidedly there was too much of it—its aided and by the retiring nature of the cut-away coat, whose chief aim clearly was to slip off and disappear behind its owner’s back.  “I’m a poor old thing,” it seemed to say.  “I don’t shine—or, rather, I shine too much among these up-to-date young modes.  I only you.  You would be much more comfortable without me.”  To persuade it to accompany him, its had to employ force, keeping fastened the lowest of its three buttons.  At every step, it struggled for its liberty.  Another characteristic of Peter’s, linking him to the past, was his black silk , secured by a couple of gold pins chained together.  Watching him as he now sat writing, his long legs encased in tightly grey trousering, crossed beneath the table, the lamplight falling on his fresh-complexioned face, upon the shapely hand that steadied the half-written sheet, a stranger might have rubbed his eyes, wondering by what hallucination he thus found himself in presence seemingly of some young beau belonging to the early ’forties; but looking closer, would have seen the many wrinkles.
 
“Come in!” repeated Mr. Peter Hope, raising his voice, but not his eyes.
 
The door opened, and a small, white face, out of which gleamed a pair of bright, black eyes, was thrust sideways into the room.
 
“Come in!” repeated Mr. Peter Hope for the third time.  “Who is it?”
 
A hand not over clean, grasping a cloth cap, appeared below the face.
 
“Not ready yet,” said Mr. Hope.  “Sit down and wait.”
 
The door opened wider, and the whole of the figure slid in and, closing the door behind it, sat itself down upon the extreme edge of the chair nearest.
 
“Which are you—Central News or Courier?” demanded Mr. Peter Hope, but without looking up from his work.
 
The bright, black eyes, which had just commenced an examination of the room by a careful of the smoke-grimed ceiling, and themselves upon the one clearly defined bald patch upon his head that, had he been aware of it, would have troubled Mr. Peter Hope.  But the full, red lips beneath the turned-up nose remained motionless.
 
That he had received no answer to his question appeared to have escaped the attention of Mr. Peter Hope.  The thin, white hand moved to and fro across the paper.  Three more sheets were added to those upon the floor.  Then Mr. Peter Hope pushed back his chair and turned his gaze for the first time upon his visitor.
 
To Peter Hope, journalist, long familiar with the genus Printer’s Devil, small white faces, hair, dirty hands, and greasy caps were common objects in the neighbourhood of that buried , the Fleet.  But this was a new species.  Peter Hope sought his spectacles, found them after some trouble under a heap of newspapers, adjusted them upon his high, arched nose, leant forward, and looked long and up and down.
 
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Peter Hope.  “What is it?”
 
The figure rose to its full height of five foot one and came forward slowly.
 
Over a tight-fitting garibaldi of blue silk, excessively décolleté, it wore what once had been a boy’s pepper-and-salt jacket.  A worsted comforter wound round the neck still left a wide expanse of throat showing above the garibaldi.  Below the jacket fell a long, black skirt, the train of which had been looped up about the waist and fastened with a cricket-belt.
 
“Who are you?  What do you want?” asked Mr. Peter Hope.
 
For answer, the figure, passing the greasy cap into its other hand, stooped down and, seizing the front of the long skirt, began to haul it up.
 
“Don’t do that!” said Mr. Peter Hope.  “I say, you know, you—”
 
But by this time the skirt had practically disappeared, leaving to view a pair of much-patched trousers, diving into the right-hand pocket of which the dirty hand drew a folded paper, which, having opened and smoothed out, it laid upon the desk.
 
Mr. Peter Hope pushed up his spectacles till they rested on his , and read aloud—“‘Steak and Kidney Pie, 4d.; Do. (large size), 6d.; Boiled Mutton—’”
 
“That’s where I’ve been for the last two weeks,” said the figure,—“Hammond’s Eating House!”
 
The listener with surprise that the voice—though it told him as plainly as if he had risen and aside the red rep curtains, that outside in Gough Square the yellow fog lay like the ghost of a dead sea—betrayed no Cockney accent, found no difficulty with its aitches.
 
“You ask for Emma.  She’ll say a good word for me.  She told me so.”
 
“But, my good—” Mr. Peter Hope, checking himself, sought again the assistance of his glasses.  The glasses being unable to decide the point, their owner had to put the question bluntly:
 
“Are you a boy or a girl?”
 
“I dunno.”
 
“You don’t know!”
 
“What’s the difference?”
 
Mr. Peter Hope stood up, and taking the strange figure by the shoulders, turned it round slowly twice, under the impression that the process might afford to him some clue.  But it did not.
 
“What is your name?”
 
“Tommy.”
 
“Tommy what?”
 
“Anything you like.  I dunno.  I’ve had so many of ’em.”
 
“What do you want?  What have you come for?”
 
“You’re Mr. Hope, ain’t you, second floor, 16, Gough Square?”
 
“That is my name.”
 
“You want somebody to do for you?”
 
“You mean a !”
 
“Didn’t say anything about housekeeper.  Said you wanted somebody to do for you—cook and clean the place up.  Heard ’em talking about it in the shop this afternoon.  Old lady in green was asking Mother Hammond if she knew of anyone.”
 
“Mrs. Postwhistle—yes, I did ask her to look out for someone for me.  Why, do you know of anyone?  Have you been sent by anybody?”
 
“You don’t want anything too ’laborate in the way o’ cooking?  You was a simple old chap, so they said; not much trouble.”
 
“No—no.  I don’t want much—someone clean and respectable.  But why couldn’t she come herself?  Who is it?”
 
“Well, what’s wrong about me?”
 
“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Peter Hope.
 
“Why won’t I do?  I can make beds and clean rooms—all that sort o’ thing.  As for cooking, I’ve got a natural for it.  You ask Emma; she’ll tell you.  You don’t want nothing ’laborate?”
 
“Elizabeth,” said Mr. Peter Hope, as he crossed and, taking up the , proceeded to stir the fire, “are we awake or asleep?”
 
Elizabeth thus appealed to, raised herself on her legs and dug her claws into her master’s .  Mr. Hope’s trousers being thin, it was the most practical answer she could have given him.
 
“Done a lot of looking after other people for their benefit,” continued Tommy.  “Don’t see why I shouldn’t do it for my own.”
 
“My dear—I do wish I knew whether you were a boy or a girl.  Do you seriously suggest that I should engage you as my housekeeper?” asked Mr. Peter Hope, now upright with his back to the fire.
 
“I’d do for you all right,” persisted Tommy.  “You give me my grub and a shake-down and, say, sixpence a week, and I’ll less than most of ’em.”
 
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mr. Peter Hope.
 
“You won’t try me?”
 
“Of course not; you must be mad.”
 
“All right.  No harm done.”  The dirty hand reached out towards the desk, and possessing itself again of Hammond’s Bill of Fare, commenced the operations necessary for bearing it away in safety.
 
“Here’s a shilling for you,” said Mr. Peter Hope.
 
“Rather not,” said Tommy.  “Thanks all the same.”
 
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Peter Hope.
 
“Rather not,” repeated Tommy.  “Never know where that sort of thing may lead you to.”
 
“All right,” said Mr. Peter Hope, replacing the coin in his pocket.  “Don’t!”
 
The figure moved towards the door.
 
“Wait a minute.  Wait a minute,” said Mr. Peter Hope .
 
The figure, with its hand upon the door, stood still.
 
“Are you going back to Hammond’s?”
 
“No.  I’ve finished there.  Only took me on for a couple o’ weeks, while one of the was ill.  She came back this morning.”
 
“Who are your people?”
 
Tommy seemed puzzled.  “What d’ye mean?”
 
“Well, whom do you live with?”
 
“Nobody.”
 
“You’ve got nobody to look after you—to take care of you?”
 
“Take care of me!  D’ye think I’m a bloomin’ kid?”
 
“Then where are you going to now?”
 
“Going?  Out.”
 
Peter Hope’s was growing.
 
“I mean, where are you going to sleep?  Got any money for a ?”
 
“Yes, I’ve got some money,” answered Tommy.  “But I don’t think much o’ .  Not a particular nice class as you meet there.  I shall sleep out to-night.  ’Tain’t raining.”
 
Elizabeth uttered a piercing cry.
 
“Serves you right!” Peter .  “How can anyone help treading on you when you will get just between one’s legs.  Told you of it a hundred times.”
 
The truth of the matter was that Peter was becoming very angry with himself.  For no reason whatever, as he told himself, his memory would persist in wandering to Ilford , in a certain corner of which lay a fragile little woman whose lungs had been but ill adapted to breathing London fogs; with, on the top of her, a still smaller and still more fragile of humanity that, in compliment to its only relative worth a penny-piece, had been christened Thomas—a name common enough in all conscience, as Peter had reminded himself more than once.  In the name of common sense, what had dead and buried Tommy Hope to do with this affair?  The whole thing was the veriest sentiment, and sentiment was Mr. Peter Hope’s abomination.  Had he not penned articles innumerable pointing out its influence upon the age?  Had he not always it, wherever he had come across it in play or book?  Now and then the suspicion had crossed Peter’s mind that, in spite of all this, he was somewhat of a sentimentalist himself—things had suggested this to him.  The fear had always made him .
 
“You wait here till I come back,” he growled, seizing the astonished Tommy by the worsted comforter and spinning it into the centre of the room.  “Sit down, and don’t you dare to move.”  And Peter went out and slammed the door behind him.
 
“Bit off his chump, ain’t he?” remarked Tommy to Elizabeth, as the sound of Peter’s footsteps died away.  People had a way of addressing remarks to Elizabeth.  Something in her manner invited this.
 
“Oh, well, it’s all in the day’s work,” commented Tommy cheerfully, and sat down as bid.
 
Five minutes passed, maybe ten.  Then Peter returned, accompanied by a large, restful lady, to whom surprise—one felt it instinctively—had always been, and always would remain, an unknown quantity.
 
Tommy rose.
 
“That’s the—the article,” explained Peter.
 
Mrs. Postwhistle compressed her lips and slightly tossed her head.  It was the attitude of not ill-natured contempt from which she regarded most human affairs.
 
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Postwhistle; “I remember seeing ’er there—leastways, it was an ’er right enough then.  What ’ave you done with your clothes?”
 
“They weren’t mine,” explained Tommy.  “They were things what Mrs. Hammond had lent me.”
 
“Is that your own?” asked Mrs. Postwhistle, indicating the blue silk garibaldi.
 
“Yes.”
 
“What went with it?”
 
“Tights.  They were too far gone.”
 
“What made you give up the tumbling business and go to Mrs. ’Ammond’s?”
 
“It gave me up.  Hurt myself.”
 
“Who were you with last?”
 
“Martini .”
 
“And before that?”
 
“Oh! heaps of ’em.”
 
“Nobody ever told you whether you was a boy or a girl?”
 
“Nobody as I’d care to believe.  Some of them called me the one, some of them the other.  It depended upon what was wanted.”
 
“How old are you?”
 
“I dunno.”
 
Mrs. Postwhistle turned to Peter, who was keys.
 
“Well, there’s the bed upstairs.  It’s for you to decide.”
 
“What I don’t want to do,” explained Peter, sinking his voice to a whisper, “is to make a fool of myself.”
 
“That’s always a good rule,” agreed Mrs. Postwhistle, “for those to whom it’s possible.”
 
“Anyhow,” said Peter, “one night can’t do any harm.  To-morrow we can think what’s to be done.”
 
“To-morrow” had always been Peter’s lucky day.  At the mention of the magic date his spirits invariably rose.  He now turned upon Tommy a from which all was .
 
“Very well, Tommy,” said Mr. Peter Hope, “you can sleep here to-night.  Go with Mrs. Postwhistle, and she’ll show you your room.”
 
The black eyes shone.
 
“You’re going to give me a trial?”
 
“We’ll talk about all that to-morrow.”  The black eyes clouded.
 
“Look here.  I tell you straight, it ain’t no good.”
 
“What do you mean?  What isn’t any good?” demanded Peter.
 
“You’ll want to send me to prison.”
 
“To prison!”
 
“Oh, yes.  You’ll call it a school, I know.  You ain’t the first that’s tried that on.  It won’t work.”  The bright, black eyes were flashing .  “I ain’t done any harm.  I’m willing to work.  I can keep myself.  I always have.  What’s it got to do with anybody else?”
 
Had the bright, black eyes retained their expression of , Peter Hope might have retained his common sense.  Only Fate arranged that instead they should suddenly fill with wild tears.  And at sight of them Peter’s common sense went out of the room disgusted, and there was born the history of many things.
 
“Don’t be silly,” said Peter.  “You didn’t understand.  Of course I’m going to give you a trial.  You’re going to ‘do’ for me.  I merely meant that we’d leave the details till to-morrow.  Come, don’t cry.”
 
The little wet face looked up.
 
“You mean it?  Honour bright?”
 
“Honour bright.  Now go and wash yourself.  Then you shall get me my supper.”
 
The odd figure, still heaving from its paroxysm of , stood up.
 
“And I have my grub, my lodging, and sixpence a week?”
 
“Yes, yes; I think that’s a fair arrangement,” agreed Mr. Peter Hope, considering.  “Don’t you, Mrs. Postwhistle?”
 
“With a frock—or a suit of trousers—thrown in,” suggested Mrs. Postwhistle.  “It’s generally done.”
 
“If it’s the custom, certainly,” agreed Mr. Peter Hope.  “Sixpence a week and clothes.”
 
And this time it was Peter that, in company with Elizabeth, sat waiting the return of Tommy.
 
“I rather hope,” said Peter, “it’s a boy.  It was the fogs, you know.  If only I could have afforded to send him away!”
 
Elizabeth looked thoughtful.  The door opened.
 
“Ah! that’s better, much better,” said Mr. Peter Hope.  “’Pon my word, you look quite respectable.”
 
By the practical Mrs. Postwhistle a working agreement, benefiting both parties, had been arrived at with the long-trained skirt; while an ample shawl arranged with disguised the nakedness that lay below.  Peter, a fastidious gentleman, observed with satisfaction that the hands, now clean, had been well cared for.
 
“Give me that cap,” said Peter.  He threw it in the glowing fire.  It burned brightly, strange odours.
 
“There’s a travelling cap of mine hanging up in the passage.  You can wear that for the present.  Take this half-sovereign and get me some cold meat and beer for supper.  You’ll find everything else you want in that sideboard or else in the kitchen.  Don’t ask me a hundred questions, and don’t make a noise,” and Peter went back to his work.
 
“Good idea, that half-sovereign,” said Peter.  “Shan’t be bothered with ‘Master Tommy’ any more, don’t expect.  Starting a nursery at our time of life.  Madness.”  Peter’s pen scratched and spluttered.  Elizabeth kept an eye upon the door.
 
“Quarter of an hour,” said Peter, looking at his watch.  “Told you so.”  The article on which Peter was now engaged appeared to be of a worrying nature.
 
“Then why,” said Peter, “why did he refuse that shilling?  Artfulness,” concluded Peter, “pure artfulness.  Elizabeth, old girl, we’ve got out of this business cheaply.  Good idea, that half-sovereign.”  Peter gave to a that had the effect of alarming Elizabeth.
 
But luck evidently was not with Peter that night.
 
“Pingle’s was sold out,” explained Tommy, entering with parcels; “had to go to Bow’s in Farringdon Street.”
 
“Oh!” said Peter, without looking up.
 
Tommy passed through into the little kitchen behind.  Peter wrote on rapidly, making up for lost time.
 
“Good!” murmured Peter, smiling to himself, “that’s a neat phrase.  That ought to irritate them.”
 
Now, as he wrote, while with noiseless footsteps Tommy, unseen behind him, moved to and fro and in and out the little kitchen, there came to Peter Hope this very curious experience: it felt to him as if for a long time he had been ill—so ill as not even to have been aware of it—and that now he was beginning to be himself again; consciousness of things returning to him.  This solidly furnished, long, oak-panelled room with its air of old-world dignity and repose—this sober, room in which for more than half his life he had lived and worked—why had he forgotten it?  It came forward greeting him with an amused smile, as of some old friend long parted from.  The faded photos, in stiff, wooden frames upon the chimney-piece, among them that of the fragile little woman with the unadaptable lungs.
 
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Peter Hope, pushing back his chair.  “It’s thirty years ago.  How time does fly!  Why, let me see, I must be—”
 
“D’you like it with a head on it?” demanded Tommy, who had been waiting patiently for signs.
 
Peter shook himself awake and went to his supper.
 
A bright idea occurred to Peter in the night.  “Of course; why didn’t I think of it before?  Settle the question at once.”  Peter fell into an easy sleep.
 
“Tommy,” said Peter, as he sat himself down to breakfast the next morning.  “By-the-by,” asked Peter with a puzzled expression, putting down his cup, “what is this?”
 
“Cauffee,” informed him Tommy.  “You said cauffee.”
 
“Oh!” replied Peter.  “For the future, Tommy, if you don’t mind, I will take tea of a morning.”
 
“All the same to me,” explained the agreeable Tommy, “it’s your breakfast.”
 
“What I was about to say,” continued Peter, “was that you’re not looking very well, Tommy.”
 
“I’m all right,” asserted Tommy; “never nothing the matter with me.”
 
“Not that you know of, perhaps; but one can be in a very bad way, Tommy, without being aware of it.  I cannot have anyone about me that I am not sure is in sound health.”
 
“If you mean you’ve changed your mind and want to get rid of me—” began Tommy, with its chin in the air.
 
“I don’t want any of your uppishness,” snapped Peter, who had wound himself up for the occasion to a degree of assertiveness that surprised even himself.  “If you are a thoroughly strong and healthy person, as I think you are, I shall be very glad to retain your services.  But upon that point I must be satisfied.  It is the custom,” explained Peter.  “It is always done in good families.  Run round to this address”—Peter wrote it upon a leaf of his notebook—“and ask Dr. Smith to come and see me before he begins his round.  You go at once, and don’t let us have any argument.”
 
“That is the way to talk to that young person—clearly,” said Peter to himself, listening to Tommy’s footsteps dying down the stairs.
 
Hearing the street-door slam, Peter stole into the kitchen and himself a cup of coffee.
 
Dr. Smith, who had commenced life as Herr Schmidt, but who in consequence of difference of opinion with his Government was now an Englishman with strong Tory prejudices, had but one sorrow: it was that strangers would mistake him for a foreigner.  He was short and , with bushy eyebrows and a grey moustache, and looked so fierce that children cried when they saw him, until he patted them on the head and addressed them as “mein leedle frent” in a voice so soft and tender that they had to leave off howling just to wonder where it came from.  He and Peter, who was a , had been cronies for many years, and had each an indulgent contempt for the other’s understanding, tempered by a sincere affection for one another they would have found it difficult to account for.
 
“What tink you is de matter wid de leedle wench?” demanded Dr. Smith, Peter having opened the case.  Peter glanced round the room.  The kitchen door was closed.
 
“How do you know it’s a wench?”
 
The eyes beneath the bushy brows grew rounder.  “If id is not a wench, why dress it—”
 
“Haven’t dressed it,” interrupted Peter.  “Just what I’m waiting to do—so soon as I know.”
 
And Peter recounted the events of the preceding evening.
 
Tears gathered in the doctor’s small, round eyes.  His absurd sentimentalism was the quality in his friend that most irritated Peter.
 
“Poor leedle waif!” murmured the soft-hearted old gentleman.  “Id was de good dat guided her—or him, whichever id be.”
 
“Providence be hanged!” Peter.  “What was my Providence doing—landing me with a gutter-brat to look after?”
 
“So like you Radicals,” the doctor, “to despise a fellow human creature just because id may not have been born in burble and fine linen.”
 
“I didn’t send for you to argue politics,” retorted Peter, controlling his indignation by an effort.  “I want you to tell me whether it’s a boy or a girl, so that I may know what to do with it.”
 
“What mean you to do wid id?” inquired the doctor.
 
“I don’t know,” confessed Peter.  “If it’s a boy, as I rather think it is, maybe I’ll be able to find it a place in one of the offices—after I’ve taught it a little .”
 
“And if id be a girl?”
 
“How can it be a girl when it wears trousers?” demanded Peter.  “Why anticipate difficulties?”
 
Peter, alone, paced to and fro the room, his hands behind his back, his ear on the alert to catch the slightest sound from above.
 
“I do hope it is a boy,” said Peter, glancing up.
 
Peter’s eyes rested on the photo of the fragile little woman gazing down at him from its stiff frame upon the chimney-piece.  Thirty years ago, in this same room, Peter had paced to and fro, his hands behind his back, his ear aler............