In the following spring a vexatious incident occurred in Warwick Street. The highly-considered county member, who was the yearly tenant of Mr. Rodney’s first floor, and had been always a valuable patron, suddenly died. An adjourned debate, a tough beefsteak, a select committee still harder, and an influenza caught at three o’clock in the morning in an imprudent but irresistible walk home with a confidential Lord of the Treasury, had combined very sensibly to affect the income of Mr. Rodney. At first he was sanguine that such a desirable dwelling would soon find a suitable inhabitant, especially as Mr. Waldershare assured him that he would mention the matter to all his friends. But time rolled on, and the rooms were still vacant; and the fastidious Rodneys, who at first would only listen to a yearly tenant, began to reduce their expectations. Matters had arrived at such a pass in May, that, for the first time in their experience, they actually condescended to hoist an announcement of furnished apartments.

In this state of affairs a cab rattled up to the house one morning, out of which a young gentleman jumped briskly, and, knocking at the door, asked, of the servant who opened it, whether he might see the apartments. He was a young man, apparently not more than one or two and twenty, of a graceful figure, somewhat above the middle height, fair, with a countenance not absolutely regular, but calm and high-bred. His dress was in the best taste, but to a practised eye had something of a foreign cut, and he wore a slight moustache.

“The rooms will suit me,” he said, “and I have no doubt the price you ask for them is a just one;” and he bowed with high-bred courtesy to Sylvia, who was now in attendance on him, and who stood with her pretty hands in the pretty pockets of her pretty apron.

“I am glad to hear that,” said Sylvia. “We have never let them before, except to a yearly tenant.”

“And if we suit each other,” said the gentleman, “I should have no great objection to becoming such.”

“In these matters,” said Sylvia, after a little hesitation, “we give and receive references. Mr. Rodney is well known in this neighbourhood and in Westminster generally; but I dare say,” she adroitly added, “he has many acquaintances known to you, sir.”

“Not very likely,” replied the young gentleman; “for I am a foreigner, and only arrived in England this morning;” though he spoke English without the slightest accent.

Sylvia looked a little perplexed; but he continued: “It is quite just that you should be assured to whom you are letting your lodgings. The only reference I can give you is to my banker, but he is almost too great a man for such matters. Perhaps,” he added, pulling out a case from his breast pocket, and taking out of it a note, which he handed to Sylvia, “this may assure you that your rent will be paid.”

Sylvia took a rapid glance at the hundred-pound-note, and twisting it into her little pocket with apparent sangfroid, though she held it with a tight grasp, murmured that it was quite unnecessary, and then offered to give her new lodger an acknowledgment of it.

“That is really unnecessary,” he replied. “Your appearance commands from me that entire confidence which on your part you very properly refuse to a stranger and a foreigner like myself.”

“What a charming young man!” thought Sylvia, pressing with emotion her hundred-pound-note.

“Now,” continued the young gentleman, “I will return to the station to release my servant, wh............