And Mr. Feuerstein laid himself out to win the owner of three tenements. He talked German politics with him in High-German, and applauded his accent and his opinions. He told stories of the old German Emperor and Bismarck, and finally discovered that Brauner was an ardent admirer of Schiller. He saw a chance to make a double stroke--to please Brauner and to feed his own vanity.
``With your permission, sir,'' he said, ``I will give a soliloquy from Wallenstein.''
Brauner went to the door leading down the private hall.
``Mother!'' he called. ``Come at once. Mr. Feuerstein's going to act.''
Hilda was bubbling over with delight. Otto sat forgotten in the corner. Mrs. Brauner came bustling, her face rosy from the kitchen fire and her hands moist from a hasty washing. Mr. Feuerstein waited until all were seated in front of him. He then rose and advanced with stately tread toward the clear space. He rumpled his hair, drew down his brows, folded his arms, and began a melancholy, princely pacing of the floor. With a suddenness that made them start, he burst out thunderously. He strode, he roared, he rolled his eyes, he waved his arms, he tore at his hair. It was Wallenstein in a soul-sweat. The floor creaked, the walls echoed. His ingenuous auditors, except Otto, listened and looked with bated breath. They were as vastly impressed as is a drawing-room full of culture-hunters farther up town when a man discourses to them on a subject of which he knows just enough for a wordy befuddling of their ignorance. And the burst of applause which greeted the last bellowing groan was full as hearty as that which greets the bad singing or worse playing at the average musicale.
Swollen with vanity and streaming with sweat, Mr. Feuerstein sat down. ``Good, Mr. Feuerstein--ah! it is grand!'' said Brauner.
Hilda looked at her lover proudly. Otto felt that the recitation was idiotic-- ``Nobody ever carried on like that,'' he said to himself. But he also felt the pitiful truth, ``I haven't got a ghost of a chance.''
He rose as soon as he could muster the courage. ``I must get back and help Schwartz open up,'' he said, looking round forlornly. ``It's five o'clock.''
``You must stay to coffee,'' insisted Mrs. Brauner. It should have been served before, but Mr. Feuerstein's exhibition had delayed it.
``No--I must work,'' he replied. ``It's five o'clock.''
``That's right,'' said Brauner with an approving nod. ``Business first! I must go in myself--and you, too, Hilda.'' The late Sunday afternoon opening was for a very important trade.
Hilda blushed--the descent from the romantic to the practical jarred upon her. But Mr. Feuerstein rose and took leave most graciously. ``May I return this evening?'' he said to Brauner.
``Always glad to see our friends,'' answered Brauner with a shamefaced, apologetic look at Otto.
At seven o'clock that evening Otto, just closing his shop, saw Mr. Feuerstein and Hilda pass on their way toward Tompkins Square. A few minutes later Sophie came along. She paused and tried to draw him into conversation. But he answered briefly and absently, gradually retreating into the darkness of his shop and pointedly drawing the door between him and her. Sophie went on her way downcast, but not in the least disheartened. ``When Hilda is Mrs. Feuerstein,'' she said to herself.
