ight lamp burned beside a basinette that might have been lined with
the breast feathers of a dove, so downy was it. An imitation-ivory clock
ticked among a litter of imitation-ivory dresser fittings. On the edge
of the bed, and with no thought for its lacy coverlet, she sat down
heavily, her wet coat dragging it awry. An hour ticked past. The maid
completed her tasks, announced her departure, and tiptoed out to meet an
appointment with a gas-fitter's assistant in the lower rear hall.

After a while Madam Moores fell to crying, but in long wheezes that came
from her throat dry. The child in the crib uncurled a small, pink fist
and opened his eyes, but with the gloss of sleep still across them and
not forfeiting his dream. Still another hour and she rose, groping
her way behind a chintz curtain at the far end of the room; fell to
scattering and reassembling the contents of a trunk, stacking together
her own garments and the tiny garments of a tiny white layette.

Toward midnight she fell to crying again beside the crib, and in audible
jerks and moans that racked her. The child stirred. Cramming her
handkerchief against her lips, she faltered down the hallway. In the
front room and on the pillowed couch she collapsed weakly, eyes closed
and her grief-crumpled face turned toward the door.

On the ground floor of a dim house in a dim street, which by the
contrivance of its occupants had been converted from its original
role of dark and sinister dining-room to wareroom for a dozen or more
perambulators on high, rubber-tired wheels, Alphonse Michelson and
Gertie Dobriner stood in conference with a dark-wrappered figure, her
blue-checked apron wound muff fashion about her hands.

Miss Dobriner tapped a finger against her too red lips. "Seventy dollars
net for a baby-carriage!"

"Yes'm, and a bargain at that. If he was home he'd show you the books
hisself and the prices we get."

"Seventy dollars for a baby-carriage! For that, Phonzie, you can buy the
kid a taxi."

In a sotto voice and with a flow of red suffusing his face, Alphonse
Michelson turned to Gertie Dobriner, his hand curved blinker fashion to
inclose his words.

"For Gawd's sake, cut the haggling, Gert. If this here white enamel is
the carriage we want, let's take it and hike. I got to get home."

Miss Dobriner drew up her back to a feline arch. "The gentleman says
we'll take it for sixty-five, spot cash."

"My husband's great for one price, madam. We don't