“Well, now,” called out Mr. Koch, to the company generally, “now that the baby's gone to bed, I propose that we adjourn to the summer-house, and try to get cooled off.” An exodus at once began; and presently they were all established, a picturesque, free-and-easy group, upon the stoop. Elias found himself at Miss Tillie's side. “Fearfully hot, isn't it?” she observed. “Very, indeed,” agreed Elias. “It always is hot over here on Lexington Avenue--Jerusalem Avenue, I call it, on account of the number of Jews that live over here. Pretty good name for it, don't you think so?” “Quite good, yes,” he assented. “But over where we live, it's much cooler. Have a breeze there most all the time.” “Ah, where is that?” “Beekman Place--clear down on the edge of the river. Number 57. Be happy to have you call on us there. We--mamma and I--we live with my uncle and aunt, the Sternbergs. It's fearfully out of the way, but it's grand when you get there.” “Yes, I've heard so,” Elias said. “Musical, Mr. Bacharach?” she inquired. “Well, I don't know. I'm very fond of music.” “Sing?” “No.” “Play?” “No, not any more. I used to, a little. But I gave it up.” “Oh, my! What a pity! I think it's perfectly elegant for a gentleman to play, don't you? But so few of them do. I think it's simply awful.” “I suppose you play, of course?” “Oh, I should say so. Yes, indeed. Music's my forte. I teach, too. Give lessons in Dr. Meyer's conservatory, and take private pupils.” “Won't you play for us a little to-night, then?” “Oh, gracious, no. It's too hot. Ah'm about melted, as it is. Ain't you?” “Well, it _is_ pretty warm,” Elias confessed, in & reflective tone. At this juncture, the white-capped maid-servant began to circulate among the people, bearing a large tray, upon which reposed a pitcher, a couple of slim bottles, and half a score of cut-glass tumblers. “Beer or wine, Mr. Bacharach?” cried Mr. Koch, from above. “Take your choice, and help yourself. They're both gratis.” Elias poured out a glass of wine for Miss Tillie, and for himself a glass of beer. “Have a fresh cigar?” cried Mr. Koch. “No, thank you. I haven't finished this one,” returned Elias, who had allowed the fire of his cigar to go out. “Well, if you ain't comfortable, speak up, that's all,” his host concluded, and became silent. “Oh, by the way, Meester Bacharach,” piped Mrs. Koch, who, having disposed of Lester, had rejoined the company, “I hear dot we haif to con-kratulate you.” “Indeed? What about?” inquired Elias, unsuspiciously. “We hear dot you was encaged. Was it true?” “Oh!” he cried, taken aback. He colored up; but the darkness hid his blushes. “Vail?” pursued his good-natured tormentress. “No--not at all--an entire mistake,” he stammered. “Oh, dot's too baid. Ain't you naifer going to get married?” “I don't know. I guess not,” he said. At this, there was a universal murmur of disapproval.