``I can't bear him,'' went on Hilda. ``No girl could. He's so
stupid and--and common!'' Never before had she used that last
word in such a sense. Mr. Feuerstein had begun to educate her.

Sophie's unobserved look changed to resentment. ``Of course he's
not equal to Mr. Feuerstein,'' she said. ``But he's a very nice
fellow--at least for an ordinary girl.'' Sophie's father was an
upholsterer, and not a good one. He owned no tenements-- was
barely able to pay the rent for a small corner of one. Thus her
sole dower was her pretty face and her cunning. She had an
industrious, scheming, not overscrupulous brain and--her hopes
and plans. Nor had she time to waste. For she was nearer
twenty-three than twenty-two, at the outer edge of the
marriageable age of Avenue A, which believes in an early start at
what it regards as the main business of life--the family.

``You surely couldn't marry such a man as Otto!'' said Hilda
absently. Her eyes were searching the crowd, near and far.

Sophie laughed. ``Beggars can't be choosers,'' she answered.
``I think he's all right--as men go. It wouldn't do for me to
expect too much.''

Just then Hilda caught sight of Mr. Feuerstein--the godlike head,
the glorious hair, the graceful hat. Her manner changed--her
eyes brightened, her cheeks reddened, and she talked fast and
laughed a great deal. As they passed near him she laughed loudly
and called out to Sophie as if she were not at her elbow--she
feared he would not see. Mr. Feuerstein turned his picturesque