the window-sill and saw her standing over him.
Hetty’s eyes bored into him like two steel gimlets.
“Don’t lie to me,” she said, calmly. “What were you going to do with that onion?”
The young man suppressed a cough and faced her resolutely. His manner was that of one who had been bearded sufficiently.
“I was going to eat it,” said he, with emphatic slowness; “just as I told you before.”
“And you have nothing else to eat at home?”
“Not a thing.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I am not working at anything just now.”
“Then why,” said Hetty, with her voice set on its sharpest edge, “do you lean out of windows and give orders to chauffeurs in green automobiles in the street below?”’
The young man flushed, and his dull eyes began to sparkle.
“Because, madam,” said he, in accelerando tones, “I pay the chauffeur’s wages and I own the automobile—and also this onion—this onion, madam.”
He flourished the onion within an inch of
