foolish speeches. He addressed his pompous platitudes
exclusively to her. Within an hour he pressed her hand under the
table and sighed dramatically. When she looked at him he started
and rolled his great eyes dreamily away. Never before had she
received attentions that were not of the frankest and crudest
practical nature. She was all in a flutter at having thus
unexpectedly come upon appreciation of the beauties and merits
her mirror told her she possessed. When Mrs. Schoenberg, her
aunt, rose to go, she gave Feuerstein a chance to say in a low
aside: ``My queen! To-morrow at eleven--at Bloomingdale's.''
Her blush and smile told him she would be there.

All left except Feuerstein and a youth he had been watching out
of the corner of his eyes--young Dippel, son of the rich
drug-store man. Feuerstein saw that Dippel was on the verge of
collapse from too much drink. As he still had his eighty-five
cents, he pressed Dippel to drink and, by paying, induced him to
add four glasses of beer to his already top-heavy burden.

``Mus' go home,'' said Dippel at last, rising abruptly.

Feuerstein walked with him, taking his arm to steady him.
``Let's have one more,'' he said, drawing him into a saloon,
gently pushing him to a seat at a table and ordering whisky.
After the third large drink, Dippel became helpless and maudlin
and began to overflow with generous sentiments. ``I love you,
Finkelstern, ol' man,'' he declared tearfully. ``They say you're
a dead beat, but wha' d'I care ?''

``Finkelstern,'' affecting drunkenness, shed tears on Dippel's