disreputable. She was wearing an old black dress many sizes too
big for her. Great pleats of it were secured by pins in
unexpected places, so that quaint chaos was made of the scheme of
decoration--black velvet and bugles--on the bodice.
Instinctively I felt that a middle-aged, fat, second-hand-
clothes-dealing Jewess had built it many years ago for synagogue
wear. On the girlish figure it looked preposterous.
Preposterous too was her head-gear, an amorphous bonnet trimmed
in black, with a cheap black feather drooping brokenly.

Her eyes gave me a reproachful glance and turned away again.
Then she shrugged her shoulders and sniffed. My mother had a
housemaid once who always sniffed like that before beginning to
cry. My position was untenable. I could not remain stonily on
the seat while this grotesquely attired damsel wept; and for the
life of me I could not get up and leave her. She looked at me
again. Those swimming, pleading eyes were scarcely human. I
capitulated.

"Don't cry. Tell me what I can do for you," I said.

She moved a few inches nearer.

"I want to find Harry," she said; "I have lost him."

"Who's Harry?" I naturally inquired.

"He is to be my husband."

"What's his other name?"