In America we do these things
differently--" he was not allowed to finish.
She glared at him, then she strode to the shop door and opened it.
"Farewell to you, Mr. Arthur Schopenhauer Wyartz, amateur anarchist.
Better go back to your mother and sisters! _Mein Gott_, Schopenhauer,
too!" He put his Alpine hat on his bewildered head and without a word
went out. She did not look after him, but walked over to the old
bird-fancier and sat on his leather-topped stool. Presently she rested
her elbows on her knees and propped her chin with her gloveless hands.
Her eyes were red. Koschinsky peeped at her and shook his head.
"Yetta--you know what I think!--Yetta, the boy was right! You shouldn't
have asked him for the Star-Spangled Banner! The Marseillaise would have
been better."
"I don't care," she viciously retorted.
"I know, I know. But a nice boy--_so_ well fixed."
"I don't care," she insisted. "I'm married to the revolution."
"Yah, yah! the revolution, Yetta--" he pushed his lean, brown forefinger
into the cage of an enraged canary--"the revolution! Yes, Yetta
Silverman, the revolution!" She sighed.
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