With a business man, Gurin, love comes after marriage."

B. Gurin rose wearily to his feet and shot his cuffs by way of showing
impatience.

"What is the use talking, Mr. Perlmutter?" he protested. "When I want to
get married I would get married--otherwise not."

He flecked away an imaginary grain of dust from the lapel of his coat
and walked slowly toward the door.

"Are you going home on the New Haven road _oder_ the Harlem road?" he
asked.

Morris scowled, and his indignation lent such force to the gesture with
which he put on his hat that the impact sounded like a blow on a
tambourine.

"_Schon gut_, Gurin," he said. "I am through with you."

He paused at the doorway and lit a cigar.

"And one thing I could tell you, Gurin," he concluded. "Either you would
send us a check the first thing to-morrow morning, _oder_ we would give
your account to our lawyers, and that's all there is to it."

He puffed away at his cigar as he trudged down the street, and he had
nearly reached the corner when he heard a familiar voice shouting: "Mr.
Perlmutter!" He turned to view B. Gurin hastening after him.