sant Park, a
barren square out of old London, with a Quaker school on one side, and
the voluble Ghetto on the other. He conducted her through East Side
streets, where Jewish lovers parade past miles of push-carts and
venerable Rabbis read the Talmud between sales of cotton socks, and
showed her a little cafe which was a hang-out for thieves. She was
excited by this contact with the underworld.

He took her to a Lithuanian restaurant, on a street which was a debacle.
One half of the restaurant was filled with shaggy Lithuanians playing
cards at filthy tables; the other half was a clean haunt for tourists
who came to see the slums, and here, in the heart of these "slums," saw
only one another.

"Wait a while," Phil said, "and a bunch of Seeing-New-Yorkers will land
here and think we're crooks."

In ten minutes a van-load of sheepish trippers from the Middle West
filed into the restaurant and tried to act as though they were used to
cocktails. Una was delighted when she saw them secretly peering at Phil
and herself; she put one hand on her thigh and one on the table, leaned
forward and tried to look tough, while Phil pretended to be quarreling
with her, and the trippers' simple souls were enthralled by this glimpse
of two criminals. Una really enjoyed the acting; for a moment Phil was
her companion in play; and when the trippers had gone rustling out to
view other haunts of vice she smiled at Phil unrestrainedly.

Instantly he took advantage of her smile, of their companionship.

He was really as simple-hearted as the trippers in his tactics.

She had been drinking ginger-ale. He urged her now to "have a real
drink." He muttered confidentially: "Have a nip of sherry or a New
Orleans fizz or a Bronx. That'll put heart into you. Not enough to
affect you a-tall, but just enough to cheer up on. Then we'll go to a
dance and really have a time. Gee! poor kid, you don't get any fun."

"No, no, I _never_ touch it," she said, and she believed it, forgetting
the claret she had drunk with Walter Babson.

She felt unsafe.

He laughed at her; assured her from his medical experience that "lots of
women need a little tonic," and boisterously ordered a glass of sherry
for her.

She merely sipped it. She wanted to escape. All their momentary
frankness of association was gone. She feared him; she hated the
complaisant waiter who brought her the drink; the fat proprietor who
would take his pieces of silver, though they were the p