Mrs. Dallam laughed easily. “Steal that!” she exclaimed, indicating Kuhn, “that... beetle! If it's any consolation to you--he hasn't put his hand on me. It makes me ill to be near him. I should be grateful if you'd take him home.” “That's so, Mrs. Kuhn,” Hartmann interpolated eagerly, “nothing's went on you couldn't witness, nothing.” Tears stole slowly over the inequalities of Mrs. Kuhn's countenance. She trembled so violently that the man called Abbie stepped forward and supported her. Now tears streamed copiously over Kuhn's narrow countenance. “Oh, Minna!” he cried, “_can_ I go home with you? can I go _now?_ These people don't mean anything to me, not like you do.--I get crazy at times, and gotta have excitement; I hate it,” he declared; “but I can't somehow stand out against it. But you must give me another try.... Why, I'd be nothing in the world without you; I'd go down to hell alive without you, Minna.” Mrs. Kuhn became unmanageable; she uttered a series of short, gasping cries, and wilted into the arm about her. “Take her out, Abbie,” Kuhn entreated, “take her out of this.” Anthony, with the tray still balanced in his grasp, stood aside. The man without characteristics was making rapid notes in an unostentatious wallet. Then Mrs. Kuhn, supported and followed by her husband and the third, disappeared into the hall. “Shut the door,” Hartmann commanded sharply; “and give me a drink.” Anthony set the tray on a table. “God!” the yellow-haired woman ejaculated, “me too.” Mrs. Dallam returned to the mirror, and surveyed the effects of the cold cream. With an expression of distaste she brushed the marks of the powder from her arm. “The beetle!” she repeated. “Minna Kuhn won't bring action,” Hartmann declared, with growing confidence; “she'll take him back; nothing will come out.” The other woman drank deeply, a purplish flush mantelled her full countenance. A strand of metallic hair slipped over her eyes. “Let her talk,” she asseverated; “we're bohemians.” She clasped Hartmann to her ample bosom. Mrs. Dallam moved to the half opened door to the room beyond. “Bring in the pitcher of water, Anthony,” she directed. He followed her with the water, and she bolted the door behind them. The door to the hall was closed too. She stopped and smiled at him with narrowed, enigmatic eyes. The subtle force of her being swept tingling over him. She laid her hand, warm, palpitatingly alive, upon his. “The swine,” she said; “how did we get into this, you and I?” XXVII