Esther woke early, little refreshed.  The mattress was hard, and in her restricted allowance of space she had to deny herself the luxury of tossing and turning lest she should arouse Debby.  To open one’s eyes on a new day is not pleasant when situations have to be faced.  Esther felt this disagreeable duty could no longer be shirked.  Malka’s words rang in her ears.  How, indeed, could she earn a living?  Literature had failed her; with journalism she had no point of contact save The Flag of Judah, and that journal was out of the question.  Teaching—­the last resort of the hopeless—­alone remained.  Maybe even in the Ghetto there were parents who wanted their children to learn the piano, and who would find Esther’s mediocre digital ability good enough.  She might teach as of old in an elementary school.  But she would not go back to her own—­all the human nature in her revolted at the thought of exposing herself to the sympathy of her former colleagues.  Nothing was to be gained by lying sleepless in bed, gazing at the discolored wallpaper and the forlorn furniture.  She slipped out gently and dressed herself, the absence of any apparatus for a bath making her heart heavier with reminders of the realities of poverty.  It was not easy to avert her thoughts from her dainty bedroom of yesterday.  But she succeeded; the cheerlessness of the little chamber turned her thoughts backwards to the years of girlhood, and when she had finished dressing she almost mechanically lit the fire and put the kettle to boil.  Her childish dexterity returned, unimpaired by disuse.  When Debby awoke, she awoke to a cup of tea ready for her to drink in bed—­an unprecedented luxury, which she received with infinite consternation and pleasure.

“Why, it’s like the duchesses who have lady’s-maids,” she said, “and read French novels before getting up.”  To complete the picture, her hand dived underneath the bed and extracted a London Journal, at the risk of upsetting the tea.  “But it’s you who ought to be in bed, not me.”

“I’ve been a sluggard too often,” laughed Esther, catching the contagion of good spirits from Debby’s radiant delight.  Perhaps the capacity for simple pleasures would come back to her, too.

At breakfast they discussed the situation.

“I’m afraid the bed’s too small,” said Esther, when Debby kindly suggested a continuance of hospitality.

“Perhaps I took up too much room,” said the hostess.

“No, dear; you took up too little.  We should have to have a wider bed and, as it is, the bed is almost as big as the room.”

“There’s the back garret overhead!  It’s bigger, and it looks on the back yard just as well.  I wouldn’t mind moving there,” said Debby, “though I wouldn’t let old Guggenheim know that I value the view of the back yard, or else he’d raise the rent.”

“You forget the Greeners who moved in yesterday.”

“Oh, so I do!” answered Debby with a sigh.