squeamish morning appetite could find no fault with the self-respecting
tidiness of the place. Tillie proved to be neat and austere. He fancied
it would not be pleasant to be very late for one's meals--in fact, Sidney
had hinted as much. Some of the "mealers"--the Street's name for
them--ventured on various small familiarities of speech with Tillie. K. Le
Moyne himself was scrupulously polite, but reserved. He was determined not
to let the Street encroach on his wretchedness. Because he had come to
live there was no reason why it should adopt him. But he was very polite.
When the deaf-and-dumb book agent wrote something on a pencil pad and
pushed it toward him, he replied in kind.

"We are very glad to welcome you to the McKee family," was what was written
on the pad.

"Very happy, indeed, to be with you," wrote back Le Moyne--and realized
with a sort of shock that he meant it.

The kindly greeting had touched him. The greeting and the breakfast
cheered him; also, he had evidently made some headway with Tillie.

"Don't you want a toothpick?" she asked, as he went out.

In K.'s previous walk of life there had been no toothpicks; or, if there
were any, they were kept, along with the family scandals, in a closet. But
nearly a year of buffeting about had taught him many things. He took one,
and placed it nonchalantly in his waistcoat pocket, as he had seen the
others do.

Tillie, her rush hour over, wandered back into the kitchen and poured
herself a cup of coffee. Mrs. McKee was reweighing the meat order.