She was only a little puppy when she was brought to Babeta's restaurant. And because Babeta has a literary turn of mind, he renamed her Ophelia when Sonori, the tenor, who knew more about dogs than about literature, said she was a Dane.

It was due to Ophelia that Babeta, the anarchist-communist philosopher, became very much interested in dogdom and learned to distinguish an Airdale from a Bulldog and a Spaniel from a Dane. They ceased talking about music and philosophy at Babeta's, and, though the Goyescas almost created a stir in the musical world and Bergson had delivered a lecture in Rumfold Hall, Babeta and his artist guests neglected such transcendental interests because of the change brought about in the direction of their thoughts by a dog, because of a little puppy they had named Ophelia.

Sonori discovered that Shakespeare, and not Verdi, was the author of "The Moor of Venice," and when the talk turned about the Scandinavians, many another musical celebrity heard for the first time the name of Ibsen or of Bjornson. And there was even a lonely man in the crowd who had read a story by Knut Hamsun, that greatest of all Scandinavian writers, whose tales have no equal in the world's literature.

In what strange surroundings Ophelia was destined to live!

Near Eighth Avenue, before Fortieth Street. The smell of garlic and tomato sauce warns the passer-by that the inhabitants are from Piedmonte, but on the street one hears the Irish brogue. The bales of cotton in front of the warehouses and the smoke from the chimneys reek after Liverpool, but the smell of rope, tar and fried smelts that comes from the wharves near by remind one of Fiume and Marseille, as the swaying masts and the spread-out sails outline themselves against the glowing sky.

And in such surroundings, back of one of the numerous saloons in which stale beer is served to drunken sailors and dust-covered longshoremen, is the celebrated restaurant of Babeta.

I have said already that Babeta is a philosopher, and were I to write about him and not about his dog, I could tell you some good stories about the interminable scientific discussions at a certain table in a corner, and the marvelous feasts at the tables reserved there for the two thousand dollar a night tenors and three thousand dollar a week sopranos. A book could be written about the decorations and friezes of the place, and only ignorance of culinary art would put a stop to what I could say about the food served at Babeta's. As to the wine—well, it's Chianti or Lacrima Christi, if that means anything to you.

But I have promised Prosper to tell the story of Ophelia. Prosper knows a lot about science and still more about art, but, because he is neither scientist nor artist, he is interested in human beings and dogs.

We all admired Ophelia. She was gliding graciously between the tables, and as she grew bigger she was frequently a medium of friendship between old and new guests. Hands met hands stroking her beautiful fur, and after an "excuse me," or a "pardon, signorina," the new guest asked the old one the name of the dog—followed an introduction, an invitation to the other table, after which Ophelia was slightly forgotten and Dante or Puccini was discussed for a little while. But Ophelia's steady place was near Babeta's table at the door.

In less than a year Ophelia was the personality of the place. She was big and stately. Her short morning walk was taken on the leash, one end of which was in her master's hand. Any casual courtesy paid to her by another dog during those walks was firmly and instantly checked by Babeta. She was a Dane, a pure blue Dane, and Babeta, the anarchist, the enemy of aristocracy, did not allow his dog to meet the common people, the free, common people of dogdom. Ophelia pulled at the leash once or twice, but, after severe reprimands, she made a virtue of necessity and passed haughtily by unobservant of any amorous advances.

It was Prosper who brought the great news. Ophelia was to be mated to a pure Dane owned by a captain, who promised to bring "Prince" on his next trip from Europe. And the news spread. People that had neglected the spaghetti and Chianti for weeks suddenly got a hankering after Babeta's place. Ere the week was over the unborn puppies were promised to two hundred people. Babeta had been shown the pedigree of Prince and was satisfied on this score.

I have already said that Ophelia was the personality of the place, but after Babeta told the story of her future mate, and promised pups to all that would listen to him, she became the most venerated personality. Sopranos with two hemispheres at their feet fed Ophelia the best sweets of the continent, and a justly celebrated baritone brought her a collar of pure silver, lined with costly fur. Nothing was too good for Ophelia, nothing too expensive for her.

From the river, a few hundred feet away, came the fog blasts of transport ships carrying thousands of men to a vortex of blood in which millions of men had already been crushed, pulverized and liquified to check the rule of aristocracy, but back of that saloon near Eighth Avenue, Babeta, the anarchist-communist philosopher, was expounding the virtues of pure blood as exemplified in Ophelia and Prince, the Dane to which she was to be mated.

Many were the bottles of wine drunk to her health and the health of her offspring. Babeta actually experienced the joys of fatherhood when he made arrangements with a veterinarian, the best in town, for the great day. In the most comfortable corner of the kitchen a place was reserved for Ophelia's litter. A new soft mattress and warm woolen covers were prepared and only the privileged ones were shown all those preparations.

"I want a male puppy," said Sonori, "because I want to call it Hamlet."

"And I want a female one and I will call it Flora," said Mlle. Marienta, the great lyric soprano.

Babeta was happy. Thanks to his dog, he had obtained higgedly-piggedly more flattery than he ever craved for his famous food or for his philosophical discourses.

"Ophelia, you good girl, come for a walk," and master and dog went early every morning to breathe fresh air.

But spring was near. As the days went by it seemed to Babeta that Ophelia was gradually losing her haughtiness towards the common people, ordinarily along the wharves.

The hundred and one mongrel dogs roving there followed Ophelia and her master and she pulled at the leash with more insistence from day to day. Once she allowed one of the dogs to come so near that Babeta felt the fangs of the mongrel as he drove him away with a kick. And Ophelia stood meekly by. Homewards she bent her head in shame as the master censored her.

"Shame, Ophelia."

Ophelia was ashamed. She nestled close to Babeta as he sat down to bandage his leg and looked up to him and whined. Only when the whining threatened to turn into a howl did Babeta give a forgiving sign. The following days the morning walks were taken along the avenue; the leash was brought up shorter, as a precaution, and all was peaceful again. But during the day Ophelia showed signs of uneasiness, and Babeta watched the door because she tried twice to slink out.

"What's the matter with Ophelia? She has refused chocolate!" asked one of the guests.

"She has probably had enough sweets," answered Babeta offhandedly, but his heart sunk.

A few days later, a street dog slunk in through the door of the restaurant. Ophelia got up from her corner to meet the stranger. Her master sprung up and kicked the intruder so violently the dog's howl could be heard from the street.

"You treat the common people pretty roughly, Babeta!" observed Prosper.

Babeta was angry with Ophelia.

"Shame," he cried, "shame," and drove her to the kitchen. "Away from me, away."

In vain Ophelia tried to make up to him. Her eyes begged forgiveness. But when it was not given she turned about and barked and howled in righteous indignation as it just occurred to her that she was unjustly treated.

"Wherein have I sinned?" she seemed to question.

Sonori and others wanted to pat her, but she gave fair warning by snarling and snapping in the air.

"What's the trouble with Ophelia?" Sonori asked.

"To the kitchen, go, go," and Babeta pushed her away.

That night, after the guests were all gone, the master spoke to the dog.

"I am ashamed of you, Ophelia. You behaved miserably. You a pure Dane to permit and accept the courtship of a low down street dog!—I am ashamed of you! Prince will soon come from Europe, and you want to associate with nondescripts that feed from garbage cans!"

Ophelia cried and whined and begged forgiveness, and was happy again only when Babeta allowed her to take the nightly piece of sugar from between his lips.

Yet Ophelia felt the misery of aristocratic loneliness. That streak of the dark blue sky she saw between the shutters at night and the snarling, howling and fighting of the dogs at the wharves caused her sleepless nights. It was early spring; the time when life asserts itself; when dog and man howls to the moon and snaps at each falling star.

That dog Babeta had kicked out so violently from the restaurant came nightly under the window of his belle and called, begged, serenaded and pleaded in even more heartrending tones than the tenor in Bizet's "Pecheur des Perles." And it was Prosper again who brought the astonishing news "Ophelia was stolen!"

It was Babeta's version of what had happened. The lattices of the shutters were smashed, the window broken and the dog gone. Babeta was the most disconsolate of men.

"Put in an ad and offer a reward. Announce to the police. Go to the depot of S. P. C. A."

Such were the advices. But he cared not. He remembered the pulling at the leash, the meeting on the wharf, the dog he kicked out, and he despaired. He had promised pure blue puppies. He had been so good to Ophelia. He had given her the best there was to be had. But she left him, ran away like a thief in the dead of night.

Babeta could not touch any food the whole day. That night, when the tenors and sopranos came to eat, they cried and mourned the great loss.

"Dio, mio, oh. Dio, mio!" they all groaned.

Babeta found Ophelia the following morning. He recognized her from a distance. His attention was drawn to a pack of dogs fighting over something or other. There were two different groups, and Ophelia, not definitely attached to either of them, was keeping on the outskirts of the skirmish, snapping and snarling at individuals of both parties. Oh, what a glorious free time she had! Her wriggling tail expressed the joy of life and its mastery. They were all afraid of her. She was stronger than any of them, and she was so happy—so happy and free!

"Ophelia!" rang Babeta's voice. The dog turned about and, seeing the master, she started in the opposite direction, tail between hind legs and head down.

"Ophelia!" he called again. She took a few steps toward him, and as he approached nearer she laid down in the mud, closed her eyes and turned her head aside. Babeta had not taken the leash along, but he held on to the silver collar to bring her home.

Babeta hoped against hope that he would still be able to give pure Dane pups to his friends, but in a few weeks the shame could no longer be hidden. He opened his heart to every one and told where he had found her and in what company. The guests who had patted her and fed her the best sweets no longer looked at her. She was pushed away from near the table. With bowed head she nestled close to her master, her sole protector and friend, but he repulsed her. He did not understand. He did not sympathize.

"Fui, fui, get away, shameless creature, to the kitchen."

The ones that were promised pups became harsh to her and everybody scolded. And one of them remarked:

"Look, she is eating from the floor."

It was the most evident sign of her downfall. Before her escapade she had never eaten but what was given to her in a plate; and never the rests from the tables, but food especially prepared for her by Babeta himself.

"Shame," they all yelled, "shame, shame."

When she lifted her pleading head to her master, Babeta, in a fit of anger, spat at it. "Fui, fui!"

In vain she waited for forgiveness. She longed for the nightly piece of sugar from the lips of her master. She stretched her neck when he passed her by in his inspection of the kitchen. But he did not even look at her. What terrible thing had she done! If he were willing to forgive her she would feel as guilty as he wanted, but since he was so harsh and insulting she felt only his cruelty and not her shame.

Outside her friend was serenading again. The door was not even closed. The master no longer cared with whom she associated. Among humans no friend was left—she understood that—the door was wide open. She could do as she pleased. She had lost her master. He will only scold and never pat again. She understood that, too.

"Where is Ophelia?" Sonori asked the next evening.

"She has run away and committed suicide!" Babeta announced. "Actually committed suicide. She understood she was disgraced. I called and called, but she ran away—she surely committed suicide!" and he was flattered that Ophelia cared enough for him to commit suicide because she had lost his friendship. Only Prosper knows.

"She has gone to the dogs," he said. "The day of aristocracy is over. It's the people now. You are either with them; howling, fighting, getting ruffled and bitten, or you have to isolate yourself on an island at the mercy of much worse—like that other great aristocrat—and Ophelia understood and made her choice."

At Babeta's table they talk again about molecular physics, phonolites, christalloids, music and art.

Dogs and Scandinavian literature are taboo. And every time Prosper enters the place Babeta feels uneasy, as though he owes him an explanation.