They haggled as usual over the price, but to-night Maria was too excited over other matters to spend much time in bickering over a few cents.

“Look here, Zerkow,” she said as soon as the transfer was made, “I got something to tell you.  A little while ago I sold a lottery ticket to a girl at the flat; the drawing was in this evening’s papers.  How much do you suppose that girl has won?”

“I don’t know.  How much?  How much?”

“Five thousand dollars.”

It was as though a knife had been run through the Jew; a spasm of an almost physical pain twisted his face—­his entire body.  He raised his clenched fists into the air, his eyes shut, his teeth gnawing his lip.

“Five thousand dollars,” he whispered; “five thousand dollars.  For what?  For nothing, for simply buying a ticket; and I have worked so hard for it, so hard, so hard.  Five thousand dollars, five thousand dollars.  Oh, why couldn’t it have come to me?” he cried, his voice choking, the tears starting to his eyes; “why couldn’t it have come to me?  To come so close, so close, and yet to miss me—­me who have worked for it, fought for it, starved for it, am dying for it every day.  Think of it, Maria, five thousand dollars, all bright, heavy pieces——­”

“Bright as a sunset,” interrupted Maria, her chin propped on her hands.  “Such a glory, and heavy.  Yes, every piece was heavy, and it was all you could do to lift the punch-bowl.  Why, that punch-bowl was worth a fortune alone——­”

“And it rang when you hit it with your knuckles, didn’t it?” prompted Zerkow, eagerly, his lips trembling, his fingers hooking themselves into claws.

“Sweeter’n any church bell,” continued Maria.

“Go on, go on, go on,” cried Zerkow, drawing his chair closer, and shutting his eyes in ecstasy.

“There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold——­”

“Ah, every one of them gold.”

“You should have seen the sight when the leather trunk was opened.  There wa’n’t a piece that was so much as scratched; every one was like a mirror, smooth and bright, polished so that it looked black—­you know how I mean.”

“Oh, I know, I know,” cried Zerkow, moistening his lips.

Then he plied her with questions—­questions that covered every detail of that service of plate.  It was soft, wasn’t it?  You could bite into a plate and leave a dent?  The handles of the knives, now, were they gold, too?  All the knife was made from one piece of gold, was it?  And the forks the same?  The interior of the trunk was quilted, of course?  Did Maria ever polish the plates herself?  When the company ate off this service, it must have made a fine noise—­these gold knives and forks clinking together upon these gold plates.

“Now, let’s have it all over again, Maria,” pleaded Zerkow.  “Begin now with ’There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold.’  Go on, begin, begin, begin!”