The young man’s pale face relaxed into a grin.

“Believe I’ll go you,” he said, brightening.  “If my onion is good as a credential, I’ll accept the invitation gladly.”

“It’s good as that, but better as seasoning,” said Hetty.  “You come and stand outside the door till I ask my lady friend if she has any objections.  And don’t run away with that letter of recommendation before I come out.”

Hetty went into her room and closed the door.  The young man waited outside.

“Cecilia, kid,” said the shop-girl, oiling the sharp saw of her voice as well as she could, “there’s an onion outside.  With a young man attached.  I’ve asked him in to dinner.  You ain’t going to kick, are you?”

“Oh, dear!” said Cecilia, sitting up and patting her artistic hair.  She cast a mournful glance at the ferry-boat poster on the wall.

“Nit,” said Hetty.  “It ain’t him.  You’re up against real life now.  I believe you said your hero friend had money and automobiles.  This is a poor skeezicks that’s got nothing to eat but an onion.  But he’s easy-spoken and not a freshy.  I imagine he’s been a gentleman, he’s so low down now.  And we need the onion.  Shall I bring him in?  I’ll guarantee his behavior.”

“Hetty, dear,” sighed Cecilia, “I’m so hungry.  What difference does it make whether he’s a prince or a burglar?  I don’t care.  Bring him in if he’s got anything to eat with him.”

Hetty went back into the hall.  The onion man was gone.  Her heart missed a beat, and a gray look settled over her face except on her nose and cheek-bones.  And then the tides of life flowed in again, for she saw him leaning out of the front window at the other end of the hall.  She hurried there.  He was shouting to some one below.  The noise of the street overpowered the sound of her footsteps.  She looked down over his shoulder, saw whom he was speaking to, and heard his words.  He pulled himself in from the window-sill and saw her standing over him.

Hetty’s eyes bored into him like two steel gimlets.

“Don’t lie to me,” she said, calmly.  “What were you going to do with that onion?”

The young man suppressed a cough and faced her resolutely.  His manner was that of one who had been bearded sufficiently.

“I was going to eat it,” said he, with emphatic slowness; “just as I told you before.”

“And you have nothing else to eat at home?”

“Not a thing.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I am not working at anything just now.”

“Then why,” said Hetty, with her voice set on its sharpest edge, “do you lean out of windows and give orders to chauffeurs in green automobiles in the street below?”

The young man flushed, and his dull eyes began to sparkle.

“Because, madam,” said he, in accelerando tones, “I pay the chauffeur’s wages and I own the automobile—­and also this onion—­this onion, madam.”