"She dressed hurriedly and was soon at the medical man's door. She heard Pedro's voice. He sang to a piano's accompaniment. The voice was as clear as a bell, the 'tessatura' as firm as rich velvet. "She rang the bell. A servant came out. 'No, the doctor was not in town.' "'He has not been in town the last two days. He was always away on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday of every week.' "'Who's playing? who's singing?' "'The great tenor and the doctor's wife'---- "And the door closed with a bang. "Pedro came home a few hours later. "'Pedro, what did the doctor say?' "'He said I must see him at least three times a week--on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays--all the time we shall be here.' "Then they went down to the restaurant to dine. He was very gay, very well disposed when they returned to their apartments. They sat down to drink Spanish lemonade which only she knew how to prepare exactly to his taste. "There was only one cry--the rest was only guttural noise. A few drops in the drink and his vocal chords were destroyed forever--he never sang again to another woman's accompaniments." * * * * * "And the woman, Madame Ibanez? What happened to the woman?" "She kept her vow. She never played accompaniments to another man's singing. She opened a restaurant, Don Pablo; her man became the cook. And now a poet thinks he loves their daughter." Like silver crystals detaching themselves from onyx flames, two tears rolled down the parched cheeks of the woman. "Pablo Cortez must know how the Ibanezes take love, and think twice before he dedicates his poems." * * * * * Some gruntlings were heard from the other side of the partition. Madame Ibanez stood up. "It's best you gentlemen leave now. Poor Pedro must be very tired." Pablo Cortez returned to Cuba on the next steamer. If you ever are hungry while in the neighborhood of Thirty-fourth Street and Seventh Avenue, look up the Ibanezes place. Juanita serves the new guests. THE LITTLE MAN OF 28TH STREET Some people call him Signor, but he is better known as "Unique" and many more people call him "Signor Unique." He is a bent little man in a long green Prince Albert coat that was once black. A short gray beard frames a pale face in squashed folds on which squats a flat nose. Bushy, low-arched eyebrows shade two little eyes which move rapidly up and down and in and out of their orbs as move scared little mice in their hole. Such is the appearance of Signor when you meet him in his musty shop littered with bric-a-brac. On the street his gait is so irregular it suggests that he is vociferating with his legs; that the two limbs are quarreling with the jerking arms and that the four limbs argue each separately with the pavement and the curb stones about things we simple mortals will never understand.