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Meyerburg, when I got a place like this, at Rivington Street I wouldn't want I should ever have to look again." "It's a feeling, Mrs. Fischlowitz, what you you can't understand until until you live through so much like me. I I just want some day you should let me come down, Mrs. Fischlowitz, and visit by you in the old place, eh?" "Ach, Mrs.
Fischlowitz, a coat better as this for you. Lined all in squirrel-skin they call it. One day by myself I bought it, and how my Becky laughs and won't even let me wear it in automobile. I ain't stylish enough, she says." With an inarticulate medley of sounds Mrs. Fischlowitz held up a hand of remonstrance. "But " "Na, na, just a minute." And on the very wings of her words Mrs.
"Warm like toast it is, Mrs. Meyerburg." "I got a idea, Mrs. Fischlowitz! In that chest over there by the wall I got yet a jacket from Rivington Street. Right away it got too tight for me. Like new it is, with a warm beaver collar. At auction one day he got it for me. Like a top it will fit you, Mrs. Fischlowitz." "No, no, please, Mrs. Meyerburg.
Fischlowitz, I guess you think it's a sin I should say so, but I tell you, when I think of that dirty little street down there and your flat what I lived in the seventeen happiest years of my life with my husband and babies when I think back on my years in that little flat I I can just feel myself tremble like all over. That's how happy we were down there, Mrs. Fischlowitz." "I can tell you, Mrs.
The lake lay locked in ice, skaters in the ecstasy of motion lunging across it. Beneath the mink lap-robe Mrs. Fischlowitz snuggled deeper and more lax. "Gott in Himmel, I tell you this is better as standing over my cheese Kuchen." "Always I used to let my cheese drip first the night before. Right through a cheese-cloth sack hung from a nail what my husband drove in for me under the window-sill."
Mrs. Fischlowitz counted it out carefully from a small purse tucked in her palm, snapping it carefully shut over the remaining coins. "Thank you, Mrs. Fischlowitz. You should never feel hurried. Mr. Oppenheimer will mail you a receipt." "I guess now I must be going, Mrs. Meyerburg to-night I promised my Sollie we have cheese-Kuchen for supper."
Fischlowitz breathed deep and grasped the nickel-plated door handle. Mrs. Meyerburg leaned out, her small plumes wagging. "Burk, since Miss Becky ain't along to-day, I don't want in front no second man." "Yes, madam." "I want instead you should take the roadster and call after Mrs. Weinstein. You know, down by Twenty-third Street, the fourth floor back." "Yes, madam."
"Right when you knocked I was thinking, well, I clean up a bit. Please, Mrs. Meyerburg, let me fix you right away a cup coffee " "Right away, Mrs. Fischlowitz, just so soon you begin to make fuss over me, I don't enjoy it no more. Please, Mrs. Fischlowitz, right here in this old rocker-chair by the range let me, please, sit quiet a minute."
Meyerburg's room of many periods, its vastness so emphasized by the ceiling after Paolo Veronese, its fluted yellow-silk bed canopy reaching up to that ceiling stately and theatric enough to shade the sleep of a shah, limped Mrs. Fischlowitz timidly and with the uncertainty with which the callous feet of the unsocialistic poor tread velvet. "How-do, Mrs. Fischlowitz?" "Mrs.
"'Come in, darling, I'd say; 'you can't guess from there what we got." "Just think, like just married you were together." "'Noodles! he'd holler, and all the time right in back of me, spread out on the board, he could see 'em. I can see him yet, Mrs. Fischlowitz, standing there in the kitchen doorway, under the horseshoe what he found when we first landed." "I can tell you, Mrs.
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