of Sidney to stand in a corner, refusing to join in the dance and making
cynical remarks about the whole thing for the amusement of the earnest
little figure she had met on the stairs.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE DEAD MONKEY AGAIN.

Esther woke early, little refreshed. The mattress was hard, and in her
restricted allowance of space she had to deny herself the luxury of
tossing and turning lest she should arouse Debby. To open one's eyes on
a new day is not pleasant when situations have to be faced. Esther felt
this disagreeable duty could no longer be shirked. Malka's words rang in
her ears. How, indeed, could she earn a living? Literature had failed
her; with journalism she had no point of contact save _The Flag of
Judah_, and that journal was out of the question. Teaching--the last
resort of the hopeless--alone remained. Maybe even in the Ghetto there
were parents who wanted their children to learn the piano, and who would
find Esther's mediocre digital ability good enough. She might teach as
of old in an elementary school. But she would not go back to her
own--all the human nature in her revolted at the thought of exposing
herself to the sympathy of her former colleagues. Nothing was to be
gained by lying sleepless in bed, gazing at the discolored wallpaper and
the forlorn furniture. She slipped out gently and dressed herself, the
absence of any apparatus for a bath making her heart heavier with
reminders of the realities of poverty. It was not easy to avert her
thoughts from her dainty bedroom of yesterday. But she succeeded; the
cheerlessness of the little chamber turned her thoughts backwards to the
years of girlhood, and when she had finished dressing she almost
mechanically lit the fire and put the kettle to boil. Her childish
dexterity returned, unimpaired by disuse. When Debby awoke, she awoke to
a cup of tea ready for her to drink in bed--an unprecedented luxury,
which she received with infinite consternation and pleasure.

"Why, it's like the duchesses who have lady's-maids," she said, "and
read French novels before getting up." To complete the picture, her
hand dived underneath the bed and extracted a _London Journal_, at the
risk of upsetting the tea. "But it's you who ought to be in bed, not
me."

"I've been a sluggard too often," laughed Esther, catching the contagion
of good spirits from Debby's radiant delight. Perhaps the capacity for
simple pleasures would come back to her, too.

At breakfas