anicures females and
supplies them with hair," I answered, "your guess is utterly wrong. She
paints women, and men too, on canvas, and any ordinary individual, such
as you and I, ought to grovel before her."

"Just say the word," he answered, "and I'll make a start. She's the best
old girl I've come across in many a long day."

"Frieda Long is hardly thirty-eight," I told him, "and, to change the
subject for a moment, I will acknowledge that I deemed such cases best
attended by the sere and ancient. I rang you up because your sign
suggested long experience."

"Not half bad, is it?" he replied. "I aged it by setting it up in the
backyard and firing brickbats at it. Old Cummerly, next door to me, had
his replated."

He swallowed his coffee, without winking, though I thought it was
boiling hot, and left me hurriedly again. I took greater leisure in my
own beverage and leaned back in my chair. This young fellow appealed to
me. The man of tact is born, not made. What serves him for a soul
possesses refinement to dictate his leaving, for a few minutes, while
one woman poured out her heart to another. I think he is considerate and
kindly; he is probably destined to make many friends and little money.

I rose and looked out of the window. The dawn was beginning and promised
another stifling, red-hot day. A very _decollete_ baker had come out of
a cave beneath the bread and cake shop, opposite, and sponged off his
forehead with the back of his hand. An Italian woman, clad in violent
colors, passed with a hundredweight or so of broken laths poised on her
head. At the corner the policeman was conversing with a low-browed
individual, issued from the saloon with a mop. New York was awakening,
and I decided I might as well shave, to pass away the time. Taking my
strop and razor I sat down to give the latter a thorough overhauling. I
suppose I fell asleep during the process.

"Contemplating suicide?" I heard Frieda ask suddenly.

I jumped up, startled, with the weapon in my hand.

"Put that thing down," she ordered me. "It makes me nervous. She's
sleeping quietly, and the doctor's gone. An awfully nice fellow. It's a
boy with brown hair."

"Not the doctor," I objected, somewhat dazed.

"No, the baby, you silly! The doctor is very nice. I am going out to get
my washerwoman's sister to come and stay with Madame Dupont--might as
well say Mrs. Dupont. Her husband's French, but she comes from Rhode
Island. You can go with me. N