And yet, if there exists such a paradox as an aristocracy among boarding-houses, Mrs. Schulem's was of it. None of the boiled odors lay on her hallways, which were not papered, but a cream-colored fresco of better days. There was only one pair of bisques, no folding-bed, and but the slightest touch of dried grasses in her unpartitioned front parlor. The slavey who opened the door was black-faced, white-coated, and his bedraggled skirts were trousers with a line of braid up each seam. Two more of him were also genii of the basement dining-hall, two low rooms made into one and entirely bisected by a long-stemmed T of dining-table, and between the lace-curtained windows a small table for two, with fairly snowy napkins flowering out of its water-tumblers, and in its center a small island of pressed-glass vinegar-cruet, bottle of darkly portentous condiment, glass of sugar, and another of teaspoons. It was here that Miss Bloom and Mr. Lipkind finally settled themselves, snugly and sufficiently removed from the T-shaped battalion of eyes and ears to insure some privacy. "Well," said Mr. Lipkind, unflowering his napkin, spreading it across his knees, and exhaling, "this is fine!" There was an aura of authoritativeness seemed to settle over Miss Bloom. This to one of the black-faced genii: "Take care of us right to-night, Johnson, and I'll fix it up with you. See if you can't manage it in the kitchen to bring us a double portion of those banana fritters I see they're eating at the big table. Say they're for Miss Bloom. I'll fix it up with you." "Now, Clara, don't you go bothering with extras for me. This is certainly fine. Sorry you never asked me before." "You know why I never asked you before." "Why, you never saw the like how pleased ma was. She was the first one to fall in with the idea of my coming to-night." She dipped into a shallow plate of amber soup. "I know," she said, "all about that." "Ma's a good sport about being left at home alone." "How do you know? You never tried it until to-night. I'll bet it's the first time since that night you first met me, five years ago, at Jerome Fertig's, and it wouldn't have been then if she hadn't had the neuralgia and it was your own clerk's wedding." He laid down his spoon, settling back a bit from the table, pulling the napkin across his knees out into a string. "I thought we'd gone all over that, Clara." "Yes; but where did it get us? That's why we're here to-night, Sam--to get somewheres." He crumbed his bread. "What do you mean, Clara?" She forced his slow gaze to hers calmly, her hands outstretched on the table between them. "I've made up my mind, Sam. Things can't go on this way no longer between us." "Just what do you mean by that?" "I mean that we've either got to act or quit." He was rolling the bread pills again, a flush rising. "You know where I stand, Clara, on things between us."