The kindly greeting had touched him. The greeting and the breakfast cheered him; also, he had evidently made some headway with Tillie. “Don't you want a toothpick?” she asked, as he went out. In K.'s previous walk of life there had been no toothpicks; or, if there were any, they were kept, along with the family scandals, in a closet. But nearly a year of buffeting about had taught him many things. He took one, and placed it nonchalantly in his waistcoat pocket, as he had seen the others do. Tillie, her rush hour over, wandered back into the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee. Mrs. McKee was reweighing the meat order. “Kind of a nice fellow,” Tillie said, cup to lips--“the new man.” “Week or meal?” “Week. He'd be handsome if he wasn't so grouchy-looking. Lit up some when Mr. Wagner sent him one of his love letters. Rooms over at the Pages'.” Mrs. McKee drew a long breath and entered the lamb stew in a book. “When I think of Anna Page taking a roomer, it just about knocks me over, Tillie. And where they'll put him, in that little house--he looked thin, what I saw of him. Seven pounds and a quarter.” This last referred, not to K. Le Moyne, of course, but to the lamb stew. “Thin as a fiddle-string.” “Just keep an eye on him, that he gets enough.” Then, rather ashamed of her unbusinesslike methods: “A thin mealer's a poor advertisement. Do you suppose this is the dog meat or the soup scraps?” Tillie was a niece of Mrs. Rosenfeld. In such manner was most of the Street and its environs connected; in such wise did its small gossip start at one end and pursue its course down one side and up the other. “Sidney Page is engaged to Joe Drummond,” announced Tillie. “He sent her a lot of pink roses yesterday.” There was no malice in her flat statement, no envy. Sidney and she, living in the world of the Street, occupied different spheres. But the very lifelessness in her voice told how remotely such things touched her, and thus was tragic. “Mealers” came and went--small clerks, petty tradesmen, husbands living alone in darkened houses during the summer hegira of wives. Various and catholic was Tillie's male acquaintance, but compounded of good fellowship only. Once, years before, romance had paraded itself before her in the garb of a traveling nurseryman--had walked by and not come back. “And Miss Harriet's going into business for herself. She's taken rooms downtown; she's going to be Madame Something or other.” Now, at last, was Mrs. McKee's attention caught riveted. “For the love of mercy! At her age! It's downright selfish. If she raises her prices she can't make my new foulard.” Tillie sat at the table, her faded blue eyes fixed on the back yard, where her aunt, Mrs. Rosenfeld, was hanging out the week's wash of table linen. “I don't know as it's so selfish,” she reflected. “We've only got one life. I guess a body's got the right to live it.” Mrs. McKee eyed her suspiciously, but Tillie's face showed no emotion.