Hetty’s nose. The shop-lady did not retreat a hair’s-breadth.
“Then why do you eat onions,” she said, with biting contempt, “and nothing else?”
“I never said I did,” retorted the young man, heatedly. “I said I had nothing else to eat where I live. I am not a delicatessen storekeeper.”
“Then why,” pursued Hetty, inflexibly, “were you going to eat a raw onion?”
“My mother,” said the young man, “always made me eat one for a cold. Pardon my referring to a physical infirmity; but you may have noticed that I have a very, very severe cold. I was going to eat the onion and go to bed. I wonder why I am standing here and apologizing to you for it.”
“How did you catch this cold?” went on Hetty, suspiciously.
The young man seemed to have arrived at some extreme height of feeling. There were two modes of descent open to him—a burst of rage or a surrender to the ridiculous. He chose wisely; and the empty hall echoed his hoarse laughter.
“You’re a dandy,” said he. “And I don’t blame you for being careful. I don’t mind
