Hetty went back into the hall. The onion man was gone. Her heart missed a beat, and a gray look settled over her face except on her nose and cheek-bones. And then the tides of life flowed in again, for she saw him leaning out of the front window at the other end of the hall. She hurried there. He was shouting to some one below. The noise of the street overpowered the sound of her footsteps. She looked down over his shoulder, saw whom he was speaking to, and heard his words. He pulled himself in from the window-sill and saw her standing over him. Hetty's eyes bored into him like two steel gimlets. "Don't lie to me," she said, calmly. "What were you going to do with that onion?" The young man suppressed a cough and faced her resolutely. His manner was that of one who had been bearded sufficiently. "I was going to eat it," said he, with emphatic slowness; "just as I told you before." "And you have nothing else to eat at home?" "Not a thing." "What kind of work do you do?" "I am not working at anything just now." "Then why," said Hetty, with her voice set on its sharpest edge, "do you lean out of windows and give orders to chauffeurs in green automobiles in the street below?" The young man flushed, and his dull eyes began to sparkle. "Because, madam," said he, in _accelerando_ tones, "I pay the chauffeur's wages and I own the automobile--and also this onion--this onion, madam." He flourished the onion within an inch of Hetty's nose. The shop-lady did not retreat a hair's-breadth. "Then why do you eat onions," she said, with biting contempt, "and nothing else?" "I never said I did," retorted the young man, heatedly. "I said I had nothing else to eat where I live. I am not a delicatessen store-keeper." "Then why," pursued Hetty, inflexibly, "were you going to eat a raw onion?" "My mother," said the young man, "always made me eat one for a cold. Pardon my referring to a physical infirmity; but you may have noticed that I have a very, very severe cold. I was going to eat the onion and go to bed. I wonder why I am standing here and apologizing to you for it." "How did you catch this cold?" went on Hetty, suspiciously. The young man seemed to have arrived at some extreme height of feeling. There were two modes of descent open to him--a burst of rage or a surrender to the ridiculous. He chose wisely; and the empty hall echoed his hoarse laughter. "You're a dandy," said he. "And I don't blame you for being careful. I don't mind telling you. I got wet. I was on a North River ferry a few days ago when a girl jumped overboard. Of course, I--" Hetty extended her hand, interrupting his story. "Give me the onion," she said. The young man set his jaw a trifle harder. "Give me the onion," she repeated. He grinned, and laid it in her hand. Then Hetty's infrequent, grim, melancholy smile showed itself. She took the young man's arm and pointed with her other hand to the door of her room.