``Why--that is--not exactly--no,'' he stammered. Hilda had told
him not to come, but he knew that if he admitted it to her
parents they would be severe with her. He didn't like anybody to
be severe with Hilda, and he felt that their way of helping his
courtship was not suited to the modern ideas. ``They make her
hate me,'' he often muttered. But if he resented it he would
offend them and Hilda too; if he acquiesced he encouraged them
and added to Hilda's exasperation.

Mrs. Brauner knew at once that Hilda was in some way the cause of
the break in the custom. ``Oh, you must come,'' she said.
``We'd feel strange all week if we didn't see you on Sunday.''

``Yes--I must have my cards,'' insisted Brauner. He and Otto
always played pinochle; Otto's eyes most of the time and his
thoughts all the time were on Hilda, in the corner, at the
zither, playing the maddest, most romantic music; her father
therefore usually won, poor at the game though he was. It made
him cross to lose, and Otto sometimes defeated his own luck
deliberately when love refused to do it for him.

``Very well, then--that is--if I can-- I'll try to come.''

Several customers pushed past him into his shop and he had to
rejoin his partner, Schwartz, behind the counters. Brauner and
his wife walked slowly home--it was late and there would be more
business than Hilda and August could attend to. As they crossed
Third Street Brauner said: ``Hilda must go and tell him to come.
This is her doing.''