“Sounds like somebody’s going out of the house, Renie.  Who—­”

“No, no.  No one has been here, mamma.  It’s just the breeze.”

“I tell you it’s a pleasure to have a daughter like mine!  What excuses to make to Max Hochenheimer, a young man what comes all the way from Cincinnati to see her—­”

“Listen, mamma; I—­I’ve only been fooling—­honest, I have.”

“What?”

“I—­aw, mamma.”

Miss Shongut’s face was suddenly buried in the neat lace yoke of her mother’s dimity blouse, and her arms crept up about her neck.

“I’ve been only fooling about to-night, mamma.  Don’t you think I know it is just like he was sent from heaven?  I’ve only been fooling, mamma, so that—­so that you shouldn’t know how happy I am.”

The soul peeped out suddenly in Mrs. Shongut’s face, hallowing it. 
“Renie!  My little Renie!”

* * * * *

On Wasserman Avenue the hand that rocks the cradle oftener than not carves the roast.  Behind her platter, sovereign of all she surveyed, and skilfully, so that beneath her steel the red, oozing slices curled and fell into their pool of gravy, reigned Mrs. Shongut.  And her suzerainty rested on her as lightly as a tiara of seven stars.

“Mr. Hochenheimer, you ain’t eating a thing!” Mrs. Shongut craned her neck round the centerpiece of pink carnations.  “Not a thing on your plate!  Renie, pass Mr. Hochenheimer some more salad.”

“No, no, Mrs. Shongut; just don’t you worry about me.”

“I hope you ain’t bashful, Mr. Hochenheimer.  We feel toward you just like home folks.”

“Indeed, what I don’t see I ask for, Mrs. Shongut.”

“Renie, pass Mr. Hochenheimer some more of that red cabbage.”

“No, no—­please, Mrs. Shongut; I got plenty.”

“Ach, Mr. Hochenheimer, you eat so little you must be in love.”

“Mamma!”

“Ach, Mr. Hochenheimer knows that I only fool.  Renie, pass the dumplings.”

“No, no—­please!  I—­”

“Mamma, don’t force.  You’re not bashful, are you, Mr. Hochenheimer?”

Miss Shongut inclined her head with a saucy, birdlike motion, and showed him the full gleaming line of her teeth.  He took a large mouthful of ice-water to wash down the red of confusion that suddenly swam high in his face, tingeing even his ears.

“For more dumplings I ain’t bashful, Miss Renie; but there—­there’s other things—­I am bashful to ask for.”

From his place at the far end of the table Mr. Shongut laughed deep, as though a spiral spring was vibrating in the recesses of his throat.

“Bashful with the girls—­eh, Hochenheimer?”

“I ain’t much of a lady’s man, Shongut.”

“Well, I wish you was just so bashful in business—­believe me!  I wish you was.”

“Shongut, I never got the best of you yet in a deal.”

“With my girl he’s bashful yet, mamma; but down to the last sausage-casing I have to pay his fancy prices.  Nun, look mamma, how red she gets!  What you get so red for, Renie—­eh?”