“Then I’ll be stepping,” said Joe. He lingered, allowing his glance to travel wistfully around the pleasant interior. “I’m sure we both thank you,” said the lady uneasily. “I wish. . . .” Joe looked up encouragingly, but she didn’t go on. “We both thank you very much indeed!” “Don’t mention it, ma’am,” said Joe. “. . . My name is Joseph Kaplan,” he added suggestively, and lingered still. “Yes?” she said with a strained smile. She became very uncomfortable, but Joe couldn’t get her over the sticking point. There was nothing more he could do without showing his hand. He thought: Oh, well, I can come back to ask how the other one is getting on. He said softly: “Good-night, lady,” and with a wistful glance in her face, let himself out of the door. She was left standing in the hall looking unhappy. As soon as he was gone, she could not understand how she could have shown such a lack of proper feeling toward that poor boy. She wanted to call him back. V “The sight of so much sin and suffering . . .” said the lady with the sprained ankle. “Hum; there were fleas in that cab. . . . I don’t know; they don’t seem to realize! . . . Huh? And the most of it falls on the innocent!” “If they was more like you we’d be a hull lot better off,” said Joe. “Not like me, Joe, no! . . . That horse ought to have been reported to the S.P.C.A. Oh, dear! There are so many things one ought to . . . Joe, you should say: ‘If there were more’—if you don’t mind my telling you. . . . Huh? . . .” “No’m. I’m crazy to learn. Ain’t had no chances. If there were more like you. . . .” “No, Joe! . . . I’m sure it had some terrible disease . . . I’m but a poor weak vessel! One night a week . . . Huh? The air is so bad! . . . Yes; if I was made of sterner stuff I would give up everything I possess and . . . I don’t know. . . .” “If you gave away ev’yt’ing, ’m, you wouldn’t have nottin’ to give to the poor.” “Oh, I don’t believe in . . . Huh? You must practice your th’s. Like this: ‘Everything; nothing.’ Huh? . . . It is yourself that you must give. . . . They don’t seem to appreciate. . . .” They were sitting in the parlor of the little house on West Eleventh street—only they called it drawing-room, Joe had learned. The little lady was seated on a sofa by the window, with her injured foot on a stool before her; a silk scarf thrown over her ankle. It was after five on Sunday afternoon, and the servant had just lighted a tall lamp which stood beside the old-fashioned piano at the back of the room. The lamp had a very large shade made of yellow crinkled paper, which spread an agreeable glow around. It was like a play.