ool!" he hurled at her. "She left because she wanted
to. . . . Let her break her neck, if she wants to!"

Krenska began to commiserate his loneliness.

"A cur!" he snarled, spitting beside him in scorn. "You, madame, can
leave to-day. I will pay you what is due you and then get out of
this house as fast as you can go, or I swear to God I'll have my
workmen throw you out! If I am to be alone I'll be entirely
alone . . . without any guardians! A cur!"

Banging his glass against the table with such force that it flew
into splinters, he went out.

CHAPTER II

The little garden theater was beginning to awaken.

The curtain arose with a creaking sound and there appeared a
barefooted and disheveled boy, clad only in a smock, who began to
sweep the temple of art. The dust floated out in large clouds on the
garden, settling on the red cloth coverings of the chairs and on the
leaves of a few consumptive chestnut trees.

The waiters and servants of the restaurant began to put things to
order under the large veranda. One could hear the clatter of washed
glasses, the beating of rugs, the moving of chairs and the subdued
whispers of the buffet-tender who arranged with a certain unction
her rows of bottles, platters containing sandwiches, and huge
bouquets a la Makart, resembling dried brooms. The glaring rays of
the sun peered in at the sides of the garden and a throng of black
sparrows swayed on the branches and perched on the chairs, clamoring
for crumbs.

The clock over the buffet was slowly and solemnly striking the hour
of ten, when a tall slim boy rushed in on the veranda; a torn cap
was perched on the top of his touseled red hair, his freckled face
wore a mischievous smile, and his nose was upturned. He ran straight
to the buffet.

"Be careful, Wicek, or you'll lose your shoes!" . . . called the
barmaid.

"I don't care; I'll get them remodeled!" he retorted jovially,
gazing down at his shoes which clung miraculously to his feet
despite the fact that they were minus both soles and tops.

"Please, miss, let me have a thimbleful of beer!" he cried bowing
ostentatiously.

"Have you the price?" asked the barmaid, extending her palm.

"This evening, I'll pay you. I give you my word, I'll pay you for it
without fail," he begged.

The barmaid merely shrugged her shoulders.

"O come on, let me have it, miss. . . . I'll recommend you to the
Shah of Persia. . . . Such a broad dame ought to have quite a pull
with