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One night, after Barstow had received his change, he remained for a few minutes talking with Daisy. “What do you find to do with yourself evenings, Miss Obloski?” he asked.

“I generally sit with Mr. and Mrs. Linnevitch and sew,” she answered.

“That’s not a very exciting life for a young lady. Don’t you ever take in a show, or go to a dance?”

She shook her head.

“Don’t you like to dance?”

“I know I’d like it,” she said with enthusiasm; “but I never had a chance to try.”

“You haven’t!” exclaimed Barstow. “What a shame! Some night, if you like, I’ll take you to an academy–a nice quiet one, mostly for beginners–where they give lessons. If you’d like, I’ll teach you myself.”

Delight showed in Daisy’s face.

“Good!” said Barstow. “It’s a go. How about to-n–” He broke off short. Linnevitch, very surly and very big, was within hearing, although his attention appeared elsewhere.

“Some time soon, then,” said Barstow in a lower voice, and aloud, “Well, good-night, Miss Obloski.”

Her eyes were upon the glass door and the darkness beyond into which Barstow had disappeared. She was returned to earth by Linnevitch’s voice close to her ear. It was gentle and understanding.

“You like dot feller–eh?”

Daisy blushed very crimson, but her great eyes were steadfast and without guile. “I like him very much, Mr. Linnevitch.”

“Not too much–eh?”

Daisy did not answer. She did not know the answer.

“Liddle girl,” said Linnevitch kindly, “you don’t know noddings. What was he saying to you, just now?”

“He said some evening he’d take me to an academy and learn me dancing,” said Daisy.

“He said dot, did he?” said Linnevitch. “I say don’t have nodding to do with them academies. You ask Mrs. Linnevitch to tell you some stories–eh?”

“But he didn’t mean a regular dance-hall,” said Daisy. “He said a place for beginners.”

“For beginners!” said Linnevitch with infinite sarcasm. And then with a really tender paternalism, “If I am your father, I beat you sometimes for a liddle fool–eh?”

Mrs. Linnevitch was more explicit. “I’ve knowed hundreds of girls that was taught to dance,” she said. “First they go to the hall, and then they go to hell.”

Daisy defended her favorite character. “Any man,” she said, “that carries a lock of his mother’s white hair with him to help keep him straight is good enough for me, I guess.”

“How do you know it is not hair of some old man’s beard to fool you? Or some goat–eh? How do you know it make him keep straight–eh?”

Linnevitch began to mimic the quiet voice and elegant manner of Barstow: “Good-morning, Miss Obloski, I have just given one dollar to a poor cribble…. Oh, how do you do to-day, Miss Obloski? My mouth is full of butter, but it don’t seem to melt…. Oh, Miss Obloski, I am ready to faint with disgust. I have just seen a man drink one stein of beer. I am a temptation this evening–let me just look in dot locket and save myself.”

Daisy was not amused. She was even angry with Linnevitch, but too gentle to show it. Presently she said good-night and went to bed.

“Now,” said Mrs. Linnevitch, “she’ll go with that young feller sure. The way you mocked him made her mad. I’ve got eyes in my head. Whatever she used to think, now she thinks he’s a live saint.”

“I wonder, now?” said Linnevitch. A few minutes’ wondering must have brought him into agreement with his wife, for presently he toiled up three flights of stairs and knocked at Daisy’s door.

“Daisy,” he said.

“What is it, Mr. Linnevitch?” If her voice had not been tearful it would have been cold.

The man winced. “Mebbe that young feller is O. K.,” he said. “I have come just to say that. Mebbe he is. But you just let me look him up a liddle bit–eh?”

He did not catch her answer.

“You promise me that–eh? Mrs. Linnevitch and me, we want to do what is right and best. We don’t want our liddle Daisy to make no mistakes.”