"Never mind," he said confusedly, "that is—I was looking for a night 's lodging,—and they—over in the harbor—they told me that Mr. Powell— But of course," he floundered, "I didn't know what you were like—or your house—I beg your pardon."
The little man laughed quietly, as one not given to laughter. The girl's eyes shone with encouraging merriment.
"What am I like, then?" asked Mr. Powell, holding up the candle, so that the girl's head disappeared in his shadow. It was a sad face, long, thin, very pale, with black eyes. He was bald over the temples, and a triangle of gray hair ran to a point midway above a forehead engraved with parallel lines. "I had hoped to seem no worse than other men," he continued, with an irony not unkind. "And as for my house, if you will come in, you will find it tolerable."
"Why, sir," replied Archer, somewhat nettled, "of course I did n't mean that. The others seemed a rough lot, and I expected— Your house is too good, sir,—too good for a sailor. I would n't have disturbed you"—
