"Won't you marry me, Otto?" She put her arms round his neck. His lips trembled and his voice broke. "I can't--let you do it, Hilda." "Very well." She pretended to sigh. "But you must come back this evening. I want to ask you again." "Yes, I'll come. But you can't change me." He went, and she sat at the table, with her elbows on it and her face between her hands, until her father came in. Then she said: "We're going to be married next week. And I want two thousand dollars. We'll give you our note." Brauner rubbed his face violently. "We're going to start a delicatessen," she continued, "in the empty store where Bischoff was. It'll take two thousand dollars to start right." "That's a good deal of money," objected her father. "You only get three and a half per cent. in the savings bank," replied Hilda. "We'll give you six. You know it'll be safe--Otto and I together can't fail to do well." Brauner reflected. "You can have the money," he said. She went up the Avenue humming softly one of Heine's love songs, still with that wonderful, beautiful look in her eyes. She stopped at the tenement with the vacant store. The owner, old man Schulte, was sweeping the sidewalk. He had an income of fifteen thousand a year; but he held that he needed exercise, that sweeping was good exercise, and that it was stupid for a man, simply because he was rich, to stop taking exercise or to take it only in some form which had no useful side. "Good morning," said Hilda. "What rent do you ask for this store?" "Sixty dollars a month," answered the old man, continuing his sweeping. "Taxes are up, but rents are down." "Not with you, I guess. Otto Heilig and I are going to get married and open a delicatessen. But sixty dollars a month is too much. Good morning." And she went on. Schulte leaned on his broom. "What's your hurry?" he called. "You can't get as good a location as this." Hilda turned, but seemed to be listening from politeness rather than from interest. "We can't pay more than forty," she answered, starting on her way again. "I might let you have it for fifty," Schulte called after her, "if you didn't want any fixing up." "It'd have to be fixed up," said Hilda, halting again. "But I don't care much for the neighborhood. There are too many delicatessens here now." She went on more rapidly and the old man resumed his sweeping, muttering crossly into his long, white beard. As she came down the other side of the street half an hour later, she was watching Schulte from the corner of her eye. He was leaning on his broom, watching her. Seeing that she was going to pass without stopping he called to her and went slowly across the street. "You would make good tenants," he said. "I had to sue Bischoff. You can have it for forty--if you'll pay for the changes you want--you really won't want any."