Then from the back of the room spoke Porter Bigelow.
"What's the name of your lodger?"
"Roger Poole."
"There are Pooles in Gramercy Park," said Aunt Frances. "I wonder if
he's one of them."
Mary shook her head. "He's from the South."
"I should think," said Porter, slowly, "that you'd want to know something
of him besides his bank reference before you took him into your house."
"Why?" Mary demanded.
"Because he might be--a thief, or a rascal," Porter spoke hotly.
Over the heads of the others their eyes met. "He is neither," said Mary.
"I know a gentleman when I see one, Porter."
Then the temper of the redhead flamed. "Oh, do you? Well, for my part I
wish that you were going to Nice, Mary."