recorded to the credit of his consistency that he never even
contemplated the idea of working for a living. And now here he
was, back in New York, with Hoboken an exhausted field, with no
resources, no hopes, no future that his brandy-soaked brain could
discern.

His mane was still golden and bushy; but it was ragged and too
long in front of the ears and also on his neck. His face still
expressed insolence and vanity; but it had a certain tragic
bitterness, as if it were trying to portray the emotions of a
lofty spirit flinging defiance at destiny from a slough of
despair. It was plain that he had been drinking heavily--the
whites of his eyes were yellow and bloodshot, the muscles of his
eyelids and mouth twitched disagreeably. His romantic hat and
collar and graceful suit could endure with good countenance only
the most casual glance of the eye.

Mr. Feuerstein had come to New York to perform a
carefully-planned last act in his life-drama, one that would send
the curtain down amid tears and plaudits for Mr. Feuerstein, the
central figure, enwrapped in a somber and baleful blaze of glory.
He had arranged everything except such details as must be left to
the inspiration of the moment. He was impatient for the curtain
to rise--besides, he had empty pockets and might be prevented
from his climax by a vulgar arrest for vagrancy.

At one o'clock Hilda was in her father's shop alone. The rest of
the family were at the midday dinner. As she bent over the
counter, near the door, she was filling a sheet of wrapping paper
with figures--calculations in connection with the new business.