Mrs. Rosenstein wanted one room papered in red, and Mr. Rosenstein held that the yellow paper that adorned the walls was good enough for another year. “But,” argued his wife, “we have laid by a little money in the past years, and we can easily afford it. And I love red paper on the walls.” Rosenstein, by the way, owned a dozen tenement houses, had no children, and led a life of strict economy on perhaps one-fiftieth of his income. Besides, Rosenstein owned a lucrative little dry-goods store that brought in more money. And he had never smoked and had never drunk. But the more his wife insisted upon the red paper the more stubborn he became in his opposition, until, one morning after a heated discussion in which he had failed disastrously to bring forth any reasonable argument to support his side of the case, he suddenly and viciously yielded. “Very well,” he said, putting on his hat and starting for the door; “get your red paper. Have your own way. But from this moment forth I become a drinker.” Mrs. Rosenstein turned pale. “Husband! Husband!” she cried entreatingly, turning toward him with clasped hands. But Rosenstein, without another word, strode out of the room and slammed the door behind him. Mrs. Rosenstein sank into a chair, appalled. The pride of her life had been that her husband had never touched liquor, and the one disquieting thought that from time to time came to worry her was that some day he might fall. And she felt that the first fall would mark the beginning of ruin. She had known men whose habits of drink had undermined their business capacity. Her husband, she knew, was close, and had a mania for accumulating money. But once the demon of drink entered into his life she felt that all this would change. He would become a spendthrift. He would squander all that he had saved. They would be homeless—perhaps they would starve. And he was about to take the first step. Her heart was almost broken. To follow him she knew would be worse than useless. He was stubborn—she had learned that—and there was nothing for her to do but to accept the inevitable. Rosenstein meanwhile walked to the nearest saloon. He had passed the place a thousand times, but had never entered before. The bartender’s eyes opened in mild surprise to see so patriarchal a figure standing in front of the bar glaring at him so determinedly. “Give me a drink!” demanded Rosenstein. “What kind of a drink do you want?” asked the bartender. Rosenstein looked bewildered. He did not know one drink from another. He looked at the row of bottles behind the counter, and then his face lit up. “That bottle over there—the big black one.” It was Benedictine. The bartender poured some of it into a tiny liqueur glass, but Rosenstein frowned. “I want a drink, I said, not a drop. Fill me a big glass.”