“Oh, God!—are all men the same?”

“Hermione,” he stammered, “Hermione—what do you mean?”

“I mean,” she answered, proud head up-flung, “there were always plenty of men to tell me that—when I was an office scrubwoman. Well?” she demanded fiercely, stung by something in his look, “what did you think I’d been? When a girl is left alone with a baby brother to care for, she can’t wait and pick and choose work that is nice and ladylike; she must take what comes along or starve—so I worked. I used to scrub floors and stairs in an office building. I was very young then, and Arthur hardly more than a baby, and it was either that or starvation or—” she flushed painfully, but her blue eyes met his regard unflinchingly; “anyway, I—preferred to be a scrubwoman. So now you know what I mean by your world not being my world, and I—I guess you see how—how impossible it all is.”

For a long moment was a silence wherein she stood turned from him, her trembling fingers busily folding and refolding a pleat in her apron while he stared down blindly at the floor.

“So you preferred the slavery of scrubbing floors, did you, Hermione?” he said at last.

“Of course!” she answered, without turning or lifting her heavy head.

“And that,” said he, his voice as placid, as serenely unhurried as usual, “and that is; just why all things are going to be possible to us—yes, even turning my wasted years to profit. Oh, my Hermione, help me to be worthy of you—teach me what a glorious thing life may be—”

“I?” she said wonderingly, her drooping head still averted, “but I am—”

“Just the one woman I want to be my own for ever and always, more—far more than I have ever wanted anything in my life.”

“But,” she whispered, “I am only—”

“The best, the noblest I have ever known.”

“But a—scrubwoman!”

“With dimples in her elbows, Hermione!” In one stride he was beside her, and she, because of his light tone, must turn at last to glance up at him half-fearfully; but those grey eyes were grave and reverent, the hands stretched out to her were strangely unsteady, and when he spoke again, his voice was placid no longer.

“Dear,” he said, leaning toward her, “from the very first I’ve been dying to have you in my arms, but now I—I dare not touch you unless you—will it so. Ah, don’t—don’t turn from me; let me have my answer—look up, Hermione!”

Slowly she obeyed, and beholding the shy languor of her eyes, the sweet hurry of her breathing, and all the sighing, trembling loveliness of her, he set his arms about her, drawing her close; and she, yielding to those compelling arms, gave herself to the passion of his embrace. And so he kissed her, her warm, soft-quivering mouth, her eyes, her silken hair, until she sighed and struggled in his clasp.

“My hair,” she whispered, “see—it’s all coming down!”

“Well, let it—I’d love to see it so, Hermione.”

“Should you? Why then—let me go,” she pleaded.

Reluctantly he loosed her, and standing well beyond his reach, she shook her shapely head, and down, down fell the heavy coils, past shoulder and waist and hip, rippling in shining splendour to her knees. Then, while he gazed spellbound by her loveliness she laughed a little unsteadily, and flushing beneath his look, turned and fled from him to the door; when he would have followed she stayed him.

“Please,” she said, tender-voiced, “I want to be alone—it is all so wonderful, I want to be alone and—think.”

“I may see you again to-night, Hermione? Dear—I must.”

“Why, if you must,” she said, “how can I—prevent you?”

Then, all at once, her cool, soft arms were about his neck, had drawn him down to meet her kiss, and—he was alone with the pastry board, the rolling-pin and the flour-dredger—but he saw them all through a golden glory, and when he somehow found himself out upon the dingy landing, the glory was all about him still.

CHAPTER XVII

HOW GEOFFREY RAVENSLEE MADE A DEAL IN REAL ESTATE

The morning sun blazed down, and Tenth Avenue was full of noise and dust and heat; children screamed and played and fought together, carts rumbled past, distant street cars clanged their bells, the sidewalks were full of the stir and bustle of Saturday; but Ravenslee went his way heedless of all this, even of the heat, for before his eyes was the vision of a maid’s shy loveliness, and he thrilled anew at the memory of two warm lips. Thus he strode unheeding through the jostling throng at a speed very different from his ordinary lounging gait. Very soon he came to a small drug-store, weather-beaten and grimy of exterior but very bright within, where everything seemed in a perpetual state of glitter, from the multitudinous array of bottles and glassware upon the shelves to the taps and knobs of the soda fountain. Yet nowhere was there anything quite so bright as the shrewd, twinkling eyes of the little grey-haired man who greeted Ravenslee with a cheery nod.

“Hot enough?” he enquired.

“Quite!” answered Ravenslee.

“Goin’ to be hotter.”

“Afraid so.”

“Rough on th’ kiddies, an’ ice goin’ up. Which reminds me I sent on the mixture you ordered for little Hazel Bowker.”

“Good,” nodded Ravenslee.

“And the pills to Mrs. Sims.”

“Good again.”

“An’ the sleeping-draught for old Martin Finlay.”

“Good once more.”

“Won’t last long, old Martin, I guess. Never been the same since little Maggie drowned herself, poor child. What d’ye want this morning?”

“First to pay for the medicine,” said Ravenslee, laying a five-dollar bill on the counter, “and then the use of your ‘phone.”

“Right there,” said the chemist, nodding toward a certain shady corner, where, remote from all intruding bustle, was a telephone booth into which Ravenslee stepped forthwith and where ensued the following one-sided conversation:

Ravenslee. “Hello!”

Telephone. “Buzz!”

Ravenslee. “Hello, Central, give me Thirty-three Wall, please.”

Telephone. “Ting-a-ling—buzz!”

Ravenslee. “Damn this ‘phone—what? No, I said Double-three Wall.”

Telephone. “Buzz! Ting! Zut!”

Ravenslee. “Sounded different, did it? Well, I want—”

Telephone. “Buzz! Zut! Ting!”

Ravenslee. “Thanks. Hello, that Thirty-three Wall? Dana and Anderson’s Office? Good! I want to speak with Mr. Anderson—say Mr. Ravenslee.”

Telephone. “Zing!”

Ravenslee. “Thanks. That you, Anderson?”

Telephone. “Pang!”

Ravenslee. “Thanks—very well! What the devil’s wrong with this instrument of torment—can you hear me?”

Telephone. “Crack!”

Ravenslee. “Good! Yes—that’s better! Now listen; I want you to do some business for me. No, I’m buying, not selling. I’m going into real estate. What, a bad speculation? Well, anyway, I’m buying tenement property in Tenth Avenue, known as Mulligan’s, I believe. Oh, you’ve heard of it, eh? Not in the market? Not for sale? Well, I’ll buy it. Oh, yes, you can—what d’ you suppose is his figure? So much? Phew! Oh, well, double it. No, I’m not mad, Anderson. No, nor drunk—I just happen to want Mulligan’s—and I’ll have it. When can you put the deal through? Oh, nonsense, make him sell at once—get him on the ‘phone. Oh, yes, he will, if you offer enough—Mulligan would sell his mother—at his own price. You quite understand—at once, mind! All right, good-by. No, I’m not mad—nor drunk, man; I haven’t tasted a cocktail for a month. Eh—go and get one? I will!”

So saying, Ravenslee hung up the receiver and hastened out of the stifling heat of the suffocating booth, mopping perspiring brow.

“You look kinder warm!” ventured the chemist.

“I feel it.”

“And it’s going to be warmer. Try an ice-cream soda—healthy and invigorating.”

“And better than any cocktail on such a day!”

“I guess! Take one?”

“Thank you, yes.”

So the bright-eyed chemist mixed the beverage and handed it over the counter.

“Chin-chin!” he nodded.

“Twice,” said Ravenslee, lifting the long glass. “To the Beautiful City of Perhaps!” and he drank deep.

“Say,” said the chemist, staring, “that sounds t’ me like a touch of the sun. Try a bottle of my summer mixture, good for sunstroke, heat-bumps, colic, spasms, and Hell’s Kitchen generally—try a bottle?”

“Thanks,” said Ravenslee, “I will.” And grimly pocketing the bottled panacea, he stepped out into the hot and noisy avenue.

CHAPTER XVIII

HOW SPIKE HEARKENED TO POISONOUS SUGGESTION AND SOAPY BEGAN TO WONDER

Spike was on his way from the office, very conscious of his new straw hat and immaculate collar; his erstwhile shabby suit had been cleaned and pressed by Hermione’s skilled and loving fingers, hence Spike turned now and then as he passed some shop window to observe the general effect with furtive eye; and stimulated by his unwontedly smart appearance, he whistled joyously as he betook himself homeward. Moreover in his breast pocket was his pay envelope, not very bulky to be sure, wherein lay his first week’s wages, and as often as he turned to glance at the tilt of the straw hat or heed the set of his tie, his hand must needs steal to this envelope to make sure of its safety. His fingers were so employed when he chanced to espy a certain article exposed for sale in an adjacent shop window; whereupon, envelope in hand, he incontinent entered and addressed the plump Semitic merchant in his usual easy manner.

“Greetings, Abe! I’ll take one o’ them hair-combs.”

“Hair-gombs?” nodded the merchant. “Vot kind?”

“What kind? Why, the best you got.”

“Ve got ‘em up to veefty dollars—”

“Come off it, Cain, come off—I ain’t purchasin’ a diamond aigrette to-day, it’s a lady’s hair-comb I want—good, but not too flossy-lookin’—savvy that? This’ll do, I guess—how much? Right there!” said Spike, flicking a bill upon the counter. “That’s it, stick it in a box—oh, never mind th’ wrappin’s. S’long, Daniel!”

With his purchase in his pocket, Spike strode out of the shop, whistling cheerily, but the merry notes ended very suddenly as he dodged back again, yet not quite quick enough, for a rough voice hailed him, hoarse and jovial.

“Why, hello, Kid, how goes it?” M’Ginnis’s heavy hand descended on his shrinking shoulder and next moment he was out on the sidewalk where Soapy lounged, a smouldering cigarette pendent from his thin, pallid lips as usual. And Soapy’s eyes, so bright between their narrowed, puffy lids, so old-seeming in the youthful oval of his pale face, were like his cigarette, in that they smouldered also.

“Holy smoke!” exclaimed M’Ginnis, surveying Spike up and down in mock amazement, “this ain’t you, Kid—no, this sure ain’t you. Looks all t’ th’ company-promoter, don’t he, Soapy?”

“‘S’ right, Kid, ‘s’ right!” nodded the pallid youth, his smouldering eyes always turning toward M’Ginnis.

“Say, now, Bud, quit your kiddin’!” said Spike petulantly.

“But, Gee whiz!” exclaimed M’Ginnis, tightening his grasp, “you sure are some class, Kid, in that stiff collar an’ sporty tie. How’s the stock market? Are ye a bull or a bear?”

“Ah, cut it out, Bud!” cried the lad, writhing.

“Right-o, Kid, right-o!” said M’Ginnis, loosing his hold. “You’re comin’ over t’ O’Rourke’s t’night, of course?”

“Why, no, Bud—I can’t.”

“Oh, t’ hell wid that—I got you all fixed up to go ten rounds wid Young Alf, th’ East Side Wonder—”

“What?” exclaimed Spike, his eyes bright and eager, “you got me a match wi’ Young Alf? Say, Bud—you ain’t stringing me, are ye?”

“Not much. I told you I’d get ye a real chance—”

“Why,” cried Spike, “if I was t’ lick Young Alf, I’d be in line t’ meet th’ top-notchers!”

“Sure—if you lick him!” nodded M’Ginnis grimly.

“Say,” said Spike, his face radiant, “I’ve just been waitin’ an’ waitin’ for a chance like this—a chance t’ show you an’ th’ bunch I can handle myself, an’ now”—he stopped all at once, and shaking his head gloomily, turned away. “I forgot, I—I can’t, Bud.”

“Aw, what’s bitin’ ye?”

“I can’t come t’night.”

“Won’t come, ye mean!”

“Can’t, Bud.”

“Why not?”

“I promised Hermy t’ quit fightin’—”

“Is that all? Hermy don’t have t’ know nothin’ about it. This is a swell chance for ye, Kid, the best you’ll ever get, so just skin over t’night an’ don’t say nothin’ t’ nobody.”

“I—can’t, Bud—that’s sure.”

“Goin’ t’ give me d’ throw-down, are ye?”

“I don’t mean it that ways, Bud, but I can’t break my promise t’ Hermy—”

“She’d never know.”

“She’d find out some ways; she always does, and I can’t lie t’ her.”

“So you won’t come, hey? We ain’t classy enough for ye these days, hey? I guess goin’ to an office every day is one thing an’ crackin’ a millionaire’s crib’s another.”