Instead of obeying, Miriam leaned close to her ear and whispered: “I've seen movies. Yesterday with the girls--after school. There was a wild west one, _Clarice of the Canyon_, and a comedy where he falls through the ceiling and all the plaster comes down on the bed and then the bed goes through another ceiling and all. It was awfully funny.” Sue mentally cast about her for guidance in the part she had promised to play. She deliberately frowned. “Does your mother know about it, Miriam?” The girl, bright-eyed, shook her head. “Then it was wrong.” Miriam still watched her, finally saying: “Do you know why I told you?” Sue, feeling rather helpless, shook her head. “Because I knew you wouldn't tell on me.” Sue pursed her lips. She heard a voice from the stair landing, Aunt Matilda's voice. “Sue!” it called--“Sue! Some one to see you!” The Worm, surely! She sprang up, smoothed her shirt-waist before the mirror, tried to smooth her unmanageable hair. Her color was rising. She waited a moment to control this. “Sue! Come down!” She passed her aunt on the stairs and was detained by a worn hand. “It's a man,” whispered the older woman--“one of those city friends cf yours, I take it. Looks like a Jew. Goodness knows what people will think! As if they didn't have enough to talk about already, without--this!” Sue shook off her hand and ran down the stairs, oblivious now to her color as to the angry flash in her striking green eyes. It was Zanin, of course---of all men! What if he had heard! In Greenwich Village there was none of the old vulgar race prejudice. Zarin was in certain respects the ablest man she had ever known. But there was no possibility that he could be understood, even tolerated, in this house on the Street. She found him on the front porch where Aunt Matilda had left him. And for an instant, before extending her hand, she stared. For there stood the new Zanin--perceptibly fuller in face and figure, less wildly eager of eye, clad in the earthy brown suit that had so impressed the Worm, with a soft gray-green shirt that might have been flannel or silk or a mixture of the two, and a large bow tie and soft hat of a harmonious green-brown. He smiled easily, thoughtfully down at her as he took her hand. Then she felt him, more sober, more critical, studying her appearance. “Well, Sue,” he observed--this was indeed a calm, successful-appearing Zanin--“you're not looking so fit as you might.” She could say nothing to this. “Dancing any?” “No. None.” She was wondering what to do with him. The choice appeared to lie between the stuffy parlor and this front porch. Within, the household would hear every word; out here the eyes of the Street would watch unrelentingly. With an impassive face and a little shrug, she remarked, indicating a stiff porch chair-- “Sit down, Jacob.” “I'll take this,” said he, dropping down on the top step in the most conspicuous spot of all. And he smiled at her.