"'S enough, Mawruss," Abe interrupted. "I heard enough from you already. Only one thing I got to tell you: if we lose a chance of getting some business from a lady which you could really say I know her well enough that it's a shame we ain't sold her nothing already even, don't blame me. That's all I got to say." He walked away to the cutting room, while Morris sat down in the nearest chair, dazed to the point of temporary aphasia. For five minutes he sat still, endeavouring to trace the intricacies of a discussion that had put him so decisively in the wrong, and he was still pondering the matter when the elevator door opened and B. Gurin alighted. "How do you do, Mr. Perlmutter?" Gurin cried. Morris grunted inarticulately and made no attempt to take his visitor's proffered hand. "Did you got any news for me?" Gurin asked. Morris rose to his feet. "Yes, I got some news for you," he said. "I got news for you that Mrs. Gladstein is engaged to be married to a feller by the name Asimof." He looked absently at a sample rack upon which reposed the very newspaper that contained the advertisement. "Here it is," he continued, as he seized the paper. "You could see for yourself." He handed the advertisement to Gurin, who read it over unmoved. "Well, I must tell you the honest truth, Mr. Perlmutter," he said. "I couldn't say I am sorry." And he smiled amiably. As Morris gazed at the fashion-plate features and the fashion-plate apparel of his visitor, he entirely forgot his optimistic scheme of supplanting Asimof with Gurin and he grew suddenly livid with a fierce rage. "You ain't, ain't you?" he bellowed. "Well, you ought to be, because so sure as you are standing there, comes Monday morning and we don't get a check from you, we would close you up sure, y'understand." "Now, lookyhere, Mr. Perlmutter--" Gurin began, but the reaction set up by Morris's encounter with his partner had begun to have its effect and he seized Gurin by one padded shoulder. "Out!" he roared. "Out of my place, you rotten, cheap dude, you!" And two minutes later B. Gurin fled wildly down the stairs, the newspaper still clutched in his hand. * * * * *