Mr. Henderson's Proposition

Late that evening Thompson walked into his room at the Globe. He seated
himself in a rickety chair under a fly-specked incandescent lamp, beside
a bed that was clean and comfortable if neither stylish nor massive.
Over against the opposite wall stood a dresser which had suffered at the
hands of many lodgers. Altogether it was a cheap and cheerless abode, a
place where a man was protected from the weather, where he could lie
down and sleep. That was all.

Thompson smiled sardonically. With hands clasped behind his head he
surveyed the room deliberately, and the survey failed to please him.

"Hell," he exploded suddenly. "I'd ten times rather be out in the woods
with a tent than have to live like this--always."

He had spent a pleasant three hours in surroundings that approximated
luxury. He had been graciously received and entertained. However, it was
easy to be gracious and entertaining when one had the proper setting. A
seven-room suite and two servants were highly desirable from certain
angles. Oh, well--what the devil was the difference!

Thompson threw off his clothes and got into bed. But he could not escape
insistent thought. Against his dull walls, on which the street light
cast queer patterns through an open window, he could see, through drowsy
eyes, Sophie half-buried in a great chair, listening attentively while
he and her father talked. Of course they had fallen into argument,
sometimes triangular, more often solely confined to himself and Carr.
Thompson was glad that the Grant Street orators had driven him to the
city library that winter. A man needed all the weapons he could command
against that sharp-tongued old student who precipitated himself joyfully
into controversy.