n a melancholy, princely pacing of
the floor. With a suddenness that made them start, he burst out
thunderously. He strode, he roared, he rolled his eyes, he waved his
arms, he tore at his hair. It was Wallenstein in a soul-sweat. The
floor creaked, the walls echoed. His ingenuous auditors, except Otto,
listened and looked with bated breath. They were as vastly impressed
as is a drawing-room full of culture-hunters farther up town when a man
discourses to them on a subject of which he knows just enough for a
wordy befuddling of their ignorance. And the burst of applause which
greeted the last bellowing groan was full as hearty as that which
greets the bad singing or worse playing at the average musicale.

Swollen with vanity and streaming with sweat, Mr. Feuerstein sat down.
"Good, Mr. Feuerstein--ah! it is grand!" said Brauner. Hilda looked at
her lover proudly. Otto felt that the recitation was idiotic--"Nobody
ever carried on like that," he said to himself. But he also felt the
pitiful truth, "I haven't got a ghost of a chance."

He rose as soon as he could muster the courage. "I must get back and
help Schwartz open up," he said, looking round forlornly. "It's five
o'clock."

"You must stay to coffee," insisted Mrs. Brauner. It should have been
served before, but Mr. Feuerstein's exhibition had delayed it.

"No--I must work," he replied. "It's five o'clock."

"That's right," said Brauner with an approving nod. "Business first!
I must go in myself--and you, too, Hilda." The late Sunday afternoon
opening was for a very important trade.

Hilda blushed--the descent from the romantic to the practical jarred
upon her. But Mr. Feuerstein rose and took leave most graciously.
"May I return this evening?" he said to Brauner.

"Always glad to see our friends," answered Brauner with a shamefaced,
apologetic look at Otto.

At seven o'clock that evening Otto, just closing his shop, saw Mr.
Feuerstein and Hilda pass on their way toward Tompkins Square. A few
minutes later Sophie came along. She paused and tried to draw him into
conversation. But he answered briefly and absently, gradually
retreating into the darkness of his shop and pointedly drawing the door
between him and her. Sophie went on her way downcast, but not in the
least disheartened. "When Hilda is Mrs. Feuerstein," she said to
herself.

IV

A BOLD DASH AND A DISASTER

Mr. Feuerstein's evening was even more successful than his af