He would prepare for his luncheon of dry bread and water. He would slice into a loaf—ah!
Miss Martha blushed. Would he think of the hand that placed it there as he ate? Would he———
The front door bell jangled viciously. Somebody was coming in, making a great deal of noise.
Miss Martha hurried to the front. Two men were there. One was a young man smoking a pipe—a man she had never seen before. The other was her artist.
His face was very red, his hat was on the back of his head, his hair was wildly rumpled. He clinched his two fists and shook them ferociously at Miss Martha. At Miss Martha.
“Dummkopf!” he shouted with extreme loudness; and then “Tausendonfer!” or something like it in German.
The young man tried to draw him away.
“I vill not go,” he said angrily, “else I shall told her.”
He made a bass drum of Miss Martha’s counter.
“You haf shpoilt me,” he cried, his blue eyes blazing behind his spectacles. “I vill tell you. You vas von meddingsome old cat!”
Miss Martha leaned weakly against the shelves and laid one hand on her blue-dotted silk waist. The young man took the other by the collar.
“Come on,” he said, “you’ve said enough.” He
