“Be careful, Muriel, or you’ll fall,” said the man, whose name was John Pierson. “Why the deuce can’t you wear sensible shoes, anyway? You’ll break your neck with those high heels yet!” As they reached the middle of the room, Muriel laughed idiotically and mumbled something about him and accused him of trying to appear so “su-su-perior, just because I kicked my heel off.” “So this is the place, eh?” asked Pierson of Dopey, looking about him curiously at the same time. Dopey took on an air of great importance and replied, huskily: “Dis is de j’int. It’s on de bum, all right, all right, but it’s de nearest shoemaker dere is, but----” “Oh, that’s all right. Any old port in a storm, you know,” stammered Muriel, and, as she saw Dora, she said: “Who you, m’ dear?” “Dora Goldberg, lady.” “And who is the other girl? Your sister?” “There is no one else here but me,” replied Dora, surprised at the question. “That’s funny. I must be seeing double. Last bottle gone to my head. Time to quit. All your fault, John Pierson--all your fault, not mine,” muttered the woman, with a maudlin laugh, staggering at the same time so that Dora thought she was falling. She hastened to bring a chair, where the woman tried to seat herself with extreme gravity, while Dora said: “Don’t thank me, lady. I’ll go and hurry father. Please have the kindness to wait. I won’t be long.” Dora tripped lightly up the steps and to the street, while Muriel settled herself into the chair and dozed almost at once. In the meantime Pierson silently watched Dora disappear, and then, turning to Dopey, said, in a low voice: “You are right. She is both young and beautiful.” “Yes, cull, and poor; jes’ as poor as a choich mouse. Show her some shines--dimints, I mean. Tell her about de glad rags, de nags and de chariot--and, soy, dere’s nuttin’ to it!” “Hush! Not so loud,” replied Pierson, looking toward Muriel, which caused him to speak in a much lower tone as he gave his very unfavorable opinion of the intoxicated woman, comparing her to a bunch of wildcats. Suddenly Muriel roused and began to sing, in a drowsy voice, the words of a drinking-song. Pierson rudely ordered her to “shut up,” which had no other effect than to make the woman repeat her song in a louder voice. “Oh, I say, for heaven’s sake, keep still! Of all the disgusting things on earth, a drunken woman is the worst,” said Pierson angrily, while he stamped his foot in rage. “Ah!” said she, acridly, “and how about a drunken man? Is there such a wide difference?” “I never took a drink in my life and you know it, Muriel Hamilton.” “Well, I don’t count you a man. You are a beast, you are!” “Thanks, awfully,” replied he, bowing scornfully. Muriel tried to rise and bow, but fell back in the chair with a silly laugh. “Oh, you are welcome. Gee! I nearly fell off my perch. Steady, birdie, steady!” Pierson strode back and forth in the little place, finally stopping before the woman, saying: