the door; on the very instant he was met point blank by a second repetition at close range. This time it was unmistakable: a sneeze, followed by a gulping sob. The mourner was Frau Quackenbush, weeping fluently.
"My dear lady," he cried aghast. "Vat can be loose, indeed? Lean on my arm, lean on de Dalmatian Navy dat have gonsoled so many unfortunate females. So, so; there, there."
He supported her tenderly to the sofa, where she sank heavily, carrying him with her. In spite of her beautiful silver gown Frau Quackenbush was a lamentable sight. Her eyes were bloodshot, glazed with tears; her nose red and swollen, her handsome features puffed with misery. She buried her face in her handkerchief.
"Ach, Himmel!" exclaimed the astounded man. "Speak, lady. You haf a pain? Mildred is sick? De gown too tight? Some calamity is too moch bust!"
She shook her head faintly, holding the handkerchief to her face, a small vinaigrette held limply in the other hand. Cointreau respectfully
