Poor Mrs. Rogaum troubled at hearing the wrath in her husband’s voice. It spoke of harder and fiercer times which had been with her. Still she was not powerful enough in the family councils to put in a weighty word. So Rogaum fumed unrestricted. There were other nights, however, many of them, and now that the young sparks of the neighborhood had enlisted the girls’ attention, it was a more trying time than ever. Never did a street seem more beautiful. Its shabby red walls, dusty pavements and protruding store steps and iron railings seemed bits of the ornamental paraphernalia of heaven itself. These lights, the cars, the moon, the street lamps! Theresa had a tender eye for the dashing Almerting, a young idler and loafer of the district, the son of a stationer farther up the street. What a fine fellow he was, indeed! What a handsome nose and chin! What eyes! What authority! His cigarette was always cocked at a high angle, in her presence, and his hat had the least suggestion of being set to one side. He had a shrewd way of winking one eye, taking her boldly by the arm, hailing her as, “Hey, Pretty!” and was strong and athletic and worked (when he worked) in a tobacco factory. His was a trade, indeed, nearly acquired, as he said, and his jingling pockets attested that he had money of his own. Altogether he was very captivating. “Aw, whaddy ya want to go in for?” he used to say to her, tossing his head gayly on one side to listen and holding her by the arm, as old Rogaum called. “Tell him yuh didn’t hear.” “No, I’ve got to go,” said the girl, who was soft and plump and fair--a Rhine maiden type. “Well, yuh don’t have to go just yet. Stay another minute. George, what was that fellow’s name that tried to sass us the other day?” “Theresa!” roared old Rogaum forcefully. “If you do not now come! Ve vill see!” “I’ve got to go,” repeated Theresa with a faint effort at starting. “Can’t you hear? Don’t hold me. I haf to.” “Aw, whaddy ya want to be such a coward for? Y’ don’t have to go. He won’t do nothin’ tuh yuh. My old man was always hollerin’ like that up tuh a coupla years ago. Let him holler! Say, kid, but yuh got sweet eyes! They’re as blue! An’ your mouth----” “Now stop! You hear me!” Theresa would protest softly, as, swiftly, he would slip an arm about her waist and draw her to him, sometimes in a vain, sometimes in a successful effort to kiss her. As a rule she managed to interpose an elbow between her face and his, but even then he would manage to touch an ear or a cheek or her neck--sometimes her mouth, full and warm--before she would develop sufficient energy to push him away and herself free. Then she would protest mock earnestly or sometimes run away. “Now, I’ll never speak to you any more, if that’s the way you’re going to do. My father don’t allow me to kiss boys, anyhow,” and then she would run, half ashamed, half smiling to herself as he would stare after her, or if she lingered, develop a kind of anger and even rage.