curl-papers and one stocking down about her high-heeled slipper,
opened the door and said: ``What do you want? I sent the maid
for a pitcher of beer.''

``I want to ask about Mr. Feuerstein,'' replied Sophie.

The girl's pert, prematurely-wrinkled face took on a quizzical
smile. ``Oh!'' she said. ``You can go up to his room. Third
floor, back. Knock hard--he's a heavy sleeper.''

Sophie climbed the stairs and knocked loudly. ``Come!'' was the
answer in German, in Mr. Feuerstein's deep stage-voice.

She opened the door a few inches and said through the crack:
``It's me, Mr. Feuerstein--Sophie Liebers--from down in Avenue
A--Hilda's friend.''

``Come in,'' was Mr. Feuerstein's reply, in a weary voice, after
a pause. From Ganser's he had come straight home and had been
sitting there ever since, depressed, angry, perplexed.

Sophie pushed the door wide and stood upon the threshold.
``Hilda's over in Stuyvesant Square,'' she said. ``She thought
you might be sick, so we came. But if you go to her, you must
pretend you came by accident and didn't see me.''

Mr. Feuerstein reflected, but not so deeply that he neglected to
pose before Sophie as a tragedy-king. And it called for little
pretense, so desperate and forlorn was he feeling. Should he go
or should he send Sophie about her business? There was no hope