Next sat young Heinrich Schnitt and his wife, Milly, who was very fashionable and wore a lace shirt-waist—­though she was not so fashionable that she was ashamed of any of the rest of the party.

Between young Heinrich and Milly sat their little Henry and little Rosa and little Milly and the baby, all stiffly starched and round-faced and red-cheeked.  Besides these were Carrie, whose husband was dead; and Carrie’s Louis; and Willie Schnitt with Flora Kraus, whom he was to marry two years from last Easter; and Lulu, who was pretty, and went with American boys in the face of broken-hearted opposition.

In front of each member of the party—­except the baby—­was a glass of beer and a “hot dog”, and down the center of the long table were three pasteboard shoe boxes, full of fine lunch, flanking Flora Kraus’ fancy basket of potato salad and fried chicken, as well prepared as any those Schnitts could put up.

It was Constance who, walking quietly with Johnny, discovered Heinrich Schnitt in the midst of his throng and casually remarked it.

“There’s the nice old German who cuts my coats,” she observed.

“Schnitt!” exclaimed Johnny, so loudly that she was afraid Schnitt might hear him.  “Let me hear you talk to him.”

She looked at him in perplexity for a moment.

“Oh, yes; the lease,” she remembered.  “I’ll introduce you and you can ask him about it.”

“Don’t mention it!” hastily objected Johnny.  “You may introduce me, but you do the talking.”

“All right, boss,” she laughingly agreed, and turned straight over to the head of the Schnitts’ table, where she introduced her companion in due form.

“I want my walking suit,” she demanded.

Heinrich’s face had lighted with pleasure at the sight of Constance, but there was a trace of sadness in his voice.

“You must tell Louis Ersten,” he politely advised her.

“I did,” protested Constance.  “He’s holding it back on account of the coat, and that’s your affair.”

“It is Louis Ersten’s,” insisted Heinrich with dignity.  “I have retired from business.”

“You don’t mean to say you’ve left Ersten?” returned Constance in surprise.

“I have retired from business,” reiterated Heinrich.

“Ersten wouldn’t give papa enough room,” broke in Mama Schnitt indignantly, “so he quits, and he don’t go back till he does.”

“So I don’t ever go back,” concluded Heinrich.

“Well, we got enough that papa don’t have to work any more,” asserted Mama Schnitt with proper pride and a glance at Flora Kraus; “but he gets lonesome.  That’s why we make him come down to Coney to-day and enjoy himself.  He was with Louis Ersten thirty-seven years.”

A wave of homesickness swept over Heinrich.

“I take it easy in my old days,” he stoutly maintained, but with such inward distress that, without a protest, he allowed the waiter to remove his half-emptied glass of beer.