He would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water. He would
slice into a loaf--ah!

Miss Martha blushed. Would he think of the hand that placed it there
as he ate? Would he--

The front door bell jangled viciously. Somebody was coming in, making
a great deal of noise.

Miss Martha hurried to the front. Two men were there. One was a young
man smoking a pipe--a man she had never seen before. The other was her
artist.

His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his
hair was wildly rumpled. He clinched his two fists and shook them
ferociously at Miss Martha. _At Miss Martha_.

"_Dummkopf!_" he shouted with extreme loudness; and then
"_Tausendonfer!_" or something like it in German.

The young man tried to draw him away.

"I vill not go," he said angrily, "else I shall told her."

He made a bass drum of Miss Martha's counter.

"You haf shpoilt me," he cried, his blue eyes blazing behind his
spectacles. "I vill tell you. You vas von _meddingsome old cat!_"

Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves and laid one hand on her