Mollie and Gretchen, the Landsmann waitresses, were gossipping. It was about eight o’clock, the next morning. Above the rattle of dishes in the kitchen, this is what one might have overheard:

“Yes, I saw her with him.”

“So did I a few nights ago.”

“They must go out every night.”

“Of course! She’s out every night since he’s back. Who else would she go with?”

“It’s just like her.”

“Yes! I always said she’d go back to ’im.”

“It was me said that.”

“Maybe you did, but I said it first. She’s a fine girl to be workin’ in an honest place like this to be goin’ out with a common prize-fighter.”

“Not to have any more self-respect!”

“Yes! I always said she’d come to a bad end.”

“Looks that way!”

Their gossipping might have continued indefinitely had not part of it been heard by an eavesdropper. She came stealthily into the kitchen and of a sudden, the waitresses received some resounding slaps. The pair screamed. Erna called them one or two unquotable names and tried to continue her attack. But she saw Landsmann coming into the kitchen and beat a retreat into the dining room, although not without this parting shot: “So you’re the kind I’ve been givin’ dresses to!”

Herr Landsmann was a busy man. Both waitresses were trying to explain at the same time. And Mollie was weeping violently. At length, he succeeded in holding an excited consultation with the girls, and with him at their head, they marched out into the store in ragged single file. The trio hurriedly argued the case before Mrs. Landsmann, who was standing behind the counter, guarding the cash register. Pretty soon, Mollie cried: “Here he comes now!”

Jimmy Allen entered. He greeted the Landsmanns and the waitresses and then some of his friends, as he passed the store tables. “How about Young Walcott?” called one. “Next Wednesday,” Jimmy returned. “Trainin’ again?” “Yes, I start to-day.” And the young hero penetrated the kitchen and stepped down into the dining room.

Erna was in a disordered state. Some of the customers were endeavoring to pacify her, but she refused their offers. She spied Jimmy and throwing down all caution, hurried over to him. He soon heard enough details.

The young man struck a melodramatic pose. “We’ll clear out o’ this hole,” he exclaimed. She put her hand on his arm, but he shook it off. “Go up-stairs an’ pack your things!”

“But Jimmy—”

“Never mind!” he interrupted. “You don’t have to stay here. If you did, it’d be different. Go up-stairs an’ pack up!”

She looked at him with momentary dread, but Jimmy waved his hand toward the doorway. Two of the customers got up to interfere, but he gave them threatening glances. Erna moved away and then stopped in uncertainty. “Go ahead!” he ordered her. She tried to go, but Landsmann stood in the doorway. His face was struggling between anger and dignity.

“Erna!” he commanded.

She stared at him.

“Go right up-stairs and—”

The storekeeper noticed Jimmy’s threatening attitude and hesitated. “Go on!” that individual encouraged him. “Got any more to say?”

Evidently, the German had not.

“Then get ’er money ready an’ see there ain’t a cent short, you lousy Dutchman! I’ll see she gets her deserts. Hurry up, you fat slob, or I’ll help you!”

Herr Landsmann disappeared and so did Erna. Jimmy, master of the moment, gave the dining room denizens a look of contemptuous pride and likewise went out.

Consternation prevailed. Each patron wanted to express an opinion, and argument rose high. Only one of them held his peace: John Carstairs. He sat aloof, a picture of gloom and stupor.

It was an early hour that evening. Carstairs was seated at the piano in his small cosy room. The gas was turned fairly low. Except for intermittent sounds from the instrument, the room was quiet.

The young man was composing. Vague measures, desolate of all cheer, followed one another in funeral tempo. The monotony, unbroken by even one note of prophecying gladness, was maddening. But the young man persisted in his lugubrious incantation. Presently, he got up, turned the gas a little higher and sat down again. A sheet of music paper lay in front of him. Only a few measures and the title—Dirge—had been transcribed. He started jotting down more notes.

There was a knock at the door. He did not hear it. The knock was repeated. Carstairs struck a petulant dissonance, arose wearily, went over to the door and opened it part way.

“Special delivery!” a man announced.

Carstairs signed the slip, the postman went away and the door was closed. The young composer examined the handwriting and quickly tore open the envelope. The note was very short.

He gave way to eager joy. And he breathed a name twice over: “Elsie!” Nervous animation betrayed him further. He re-read the note five or six times, looked about in bewilderment and re-read the note again. Of a sudden, he hurried over to the bureau and pulled open the bottom drawer. A litter of odds and ends was laid bare. With anxious haste, he threw them all about on the floor. At last, he came to a picture: the photograph of a pretty girl. His joy deepened; he held the picture at arm’s length and gazed a fill of delight. He then arighted himself, went over to the piano, moved the photograph of an older woman to one side and placed this picture near the centre. He was soon occupied studying the effect, and ultimate satisfaction was his.

He again sat down at the piano, but was unable to take his glance from the picture. Eventually, he smiled, gave the picture an au revoir look and again turned his attention to the keyboard and manuscript. He had decided to finish his composition just the same. The dirge continued intoning its gloomy measures, but a note of prophecying gladness appeared. From time to time, too, the composer stole shy glances at the photograph.

In a cosy room in a building not far away, a different scene was taking place. Eric Nielsen and Erna Vitek were sitting close together on a couch, chatting confidentially and bantering each other.

Erna had not broken off her appointment with the young writer even though a sudden change had come into her life. Luckily, Jimmy was away all afternoon, training up in Fordham, and, thanks to his continued absence, she was able to leave their flat shortly after six o’clock. She would only stay out an hour or so and, should he return before her, would tell him that she had to visit Landsmann’s for some small articles she had left behind. On the way to Nielsen’s, she bought two or three trifles. Fortunately, she had found him at home, although she was two hours beforehand.

He had heard of the morning’s event and was heartily sorry. But Erna quickly reassured him. Of course, he did not believe the hazy part of her story,—that she was “stayin’ with some friends”—but his philosophy was equal to the occasion: what Erna hid from him was no concern of his. In all, they had been spending a delightful evening. As a consequence, Erna was staying much longer than she had planned.

Nielsen enjoyed her company. She was a splendid stimulant to his stimulant-craving mental system. After his recent intercourse with the every-day woman and the every-day man,—a monotonous gallery of drab souls—she was a touch of brilliant color. Her joy, animal spirit and fighting instinct enthralled him. She stimulated his imagination particularly and consequently brought him back to his old interest in his life and work. So he was trebly indebted to her.

Erna’s greed had developed rapidly, and she had grown reckless in short order. Nielsen inspired her complete confidence. He did not take her too seriously, neither did he take her too lightly. This was just what she had craved so long. As a result, at the height of her confidence and his bantering comment, she allowed him to sit next to her, and they developed their further intimacy. For the present, she had forgotten Jimmy. He was physical and did not inspire her as Nielsen’s human temperament did so easily and so quietly. Moreover, her Vitek blood had been excited. Therefore, it was inside a natural sequence of happenings that Nielsen’s arm stole about Erna’s waist and that she submitted to the liberty. To tell the truth, Nielsen was decidedly under the influence of the wine in her nature and she under that in his.

“Isn’t this wicked?” he questioned pleasantly.

“No,” she denied.

“But it’s growing darker,” he protested.

“So much the better!” she retorted.

And they both laughed.

“This is rat time,” he warned her.

“I don’t care,” she vaunted.

And they laughed again.

Erna did not leave the Nielsen workshop until well after nine o’clock.