THEY had a very noisy and jolly time down at the beach; a time which, they all agreed, was simply grand. They walked to and fro along the shore, and went in for a bath, and ate a capital dinner, and enjoyed the music, and met lots of their friends, and laughed and talked till their sides ached, and their throats were sore. Mrs. Blum, in her bathing costume, was the butt of many innocent jokes. Her husband said she resembled a blaidder. Elias had to think hard, before he caught the idea, and recognized its force. They returned to the city by the boat; and, having reached the Battery, Mr. Blum gave expression to the universal sentiment when he declared, “Vail, dot sail up the Bay, dot was maiknificent, dot was perfectly immense.”

“Come over soon now, won’t you, Mr. Bach-arach?” Mrs. Morgenthau asked, as Elias was tearing himself away.

“Yes, do,” chimed in Miss Tillie.

And he promised that he would.

He redeemed his promise about a week later. Tillie played to him to his heart’s content, and afterward she amused him with her conversation.

On his way home, “She’s a good little thing,” he soliloquized; “thoroughly well-meaning and kind—hearted. Crude, of course, and uncultivated; but a fellow must make allowances for that sort of thing. She has plenty of mother-wit; and her dash—her abundance of animal spirits—it—it’s positively stimulating. Then she plays—well, her playing is marvelous, masterly—such execution—such expression—really, no praise could do justice to her playing. And she’s not at all bad-looking, either.”

He called pretty soon again; and after that he got into the habit of calling regularly at frequent intervals. He was invariably welcomed with exceeding warmth, and treated with a certain deference that no doubt tickled his vanity. Besides, a bay-window overlooking the East River is a pleasant place to spend a hot summer’s night. And Tillie’s music, it was worth traveling miles to hear.

In his hours of solitude he led a very useless and meaningless existence. He did not paint much; and when he did, his occupation proved neither profitable nor enjoyable. He read a good many light novels; he spent a good deal of time seated at his studio window, gazing off across the tree-tops, and lapsing into a state of mental vacuity, that approached as near to total unconsciousness as is compatible with sustained animation. He even went to the theater now and then, escorting Tillie and her mother. To Mrs. Morgenthau he had taken a genuine liking. There was something so hearty and vigorous about her, something almost manly. His palate was dulled. He craved strong flavors.

“They’re going to the country before long, aren’t they?” the rabbi asked one day.

“Yes; the first week in July.”

“Well, don’t you think we ought to have them to dinner, before they go?”

“That wouldn’t be a bad idea,” confessed Elias.

And on the following Sunday to dinner they all came; Mr. Koch expatiated in his oratorical style upon the charms of the Catskills; and the others unanimously joined him in urging Elias and the rabbi to “come along.” The rabbi replied that he positively couldn’t. His professional duties were such as to compel him to remain in town.

“But there’s no reason why you shouldn’t,” he concluded, turning to his nephew; “and I think decidedly you’d better.”

At this, they concentrated their fire upon Elias; and in the end, he said, well, perhaps he would run up for a week or two some time in August.

But he did not wait till August. After they were gone, he found the city intolerably dull. What to do with himself, how to divert himself, where to seek a substitute for the excitement that they had afforded him, he did not know. He began to realize that he had grown very dependent upon their society; likewise, that he possessed but very few and feeble resources within himself. He did not like this. It damaged his self-esteem. But he could not deny it, he could not get the better of it. He craved the sound of their voices; he craved Tillie’s music; he craved the exuberant friendliness with which they treated him. The idleness, the monotony, the insipidity, of his daily life in the city, he could not endure. In the copious leisure that it left him, he would sometimes—despite his customary inanition—he would sometimes fall to thinking; and when he thought, he did not admire himself; he even sluggishly despised himself; a sense of his uselessness bore in upon him; he was anxious to escape himself. So, toward the middle of July, he packed his trunk, and went to Tanners-town. He had said that he would run up for a week or two. But he did not return to New York until the others did so, early in September.

He and Tillie were together a great deal. They sat next to each other at table. In the daytime they would take walks together, or lounge together about the piazza of the hotel, or play croquet together; or, haply, she would lie in a hammock, while he read to her, or sketched her. In the evening, if there was dancing, they would dance together; for she had taught him to dance. Or, perhaps, they would go together for a stroll by moonlight, or again sit together on the piazza in the dark. He liked her very much indeed. On closer acquaintance, her crudity became less conspicuous. Either he got accustomed to it, or it was eclipsed by her many and sterling virtues. She was a paragon of unselfishness—always doing something for somebody, always giving up something that somebody else might enjoy it. When they went for a drive, Tillie always took the least desirable seat. When there was an errand to be run, Tillie always ran it. When a letter had to be carried to the post, Tillie always carried it. Etc., etc. Her attitude toward her mother struck Elias as especially fine. Such filial respect, solicitude, obedience, unwearying devotion, he had never witnessed before. She was constantly looking after her mother’s comfort, fetching and carrying for her mother, doing for her mother. If a pretty fan were for sale in the village, she must purchase it for mamma. If there were pretty wild flowers growing along the road-side, she must gather them for mamma. If mamma breathed a wish, Tillie would devote hours, if need were, to the execution of it. For hours, if mamma had a head-ache, Tillie would stand upon her feet, stroking mamma’s forehead. Her mother appeared to be her passion, almost her religion. And how could Elias help admiring such a model daughter? And then, her music, and her pretty face. Could anybody play like that, could anybody possess such bright blue eyes, and not have a gentle soul, even a spark of divinity, glowing beneath the surface? What mattered faulty grammar, or too robust a voice? On the whole, he told himself, he had a genuine affection for Tillie. She was a rough diamond; rough, but susceptible of the highest degree of polish. She only needed time and refining influences, to make a charming lady. He liked her very much indeed, with a patronizing, brotherly sort of liking. What her sentiment for him might be, he never thought to ask himself, but tacitly assumed that it was one of cordial friendliness.

Mr. Koch and Mr. Sternberg staid but a fortnight apiece. Mr. Blum, the ladies, and Elias, staid till the beginning of September; when they all came back to town in company. Elias then resumed his frequent visiting in Beekman Place.

One evening after dinner the rabbi asked Elias to step into his study.

“I had a call from Mr. Koch this afternoon,” the rabbi said.

“Ah?” returned Elias.

“Yes. He stopped in on his way up-town.”

“That so? Any thing special?”

“Well, yes. That’s why I wanted to see you, now. He spoke about you.” Emphasis on the “you.”

“About me? Indeed? Why, what could he have had to say about me?”

“Well, he thought it was strange that you didn’t come to see him, and wanted to know why you were holding off.”

“Come to see him? Why, I went to see him only last week. Holding off? I don’t know what he can mean.”

“No, no. You don’t understand. He meant about declaring your intentions.”

“What intentions? Intentions? I don’t know what you’re driving at, I’m sure.”

“Why, your intentions in respect to his niece, of course.”

“My intentions in respect—Mercy!” gasped Elias, with honest astonishment, as the idea suddenly dawned upon him. “You don’t mean to say that—that he imagines—that—that I—Good Lord!”

“Why, certainly,” said the rabbi. “How could he help it? You haven’t taken Washington I. Koch for a fool, I hope. Besides, your attentions have been so very marked, that no great penetration was necessary. I’m not much at that sort of thing, but even I saw through them long ago. In fact, no man with half an eye open could have failed to do so.”

“Merciful Powers!” exclaimed Elias, and sat dumb.

“There’s no use making so much ado about it, either,” pursued the rabbi. “It was bound to come out, you know, sooner or later; and, at any rate, you have no reason for feeling ashamed of it.”

“But—” began Elias.

“Oh, I dare say. I dare say, it’s a little embarrassing. That’s not unnatural. But then, you couldn’t have kept it a secret forever. By its very nature, it was bound to come out.”

“But,” Elias began anew, “but it’s not true. It’s the most preposterous mistake I ever heard of. I never had any such idea, never dreamed of having any such idea. Intentions! Why, I always thought of her as—as scarcely more than a child. I don’t see how anybody could have made such a stupid, ridiculous blunder. Well, I did give Mr. Koch credit for more intelligence.”

“Elias,” demanded the rabbi, with very great seriousness, “are you in earnest, or is this a comedy?”

“A comedy? I tell you it’s outrageous. I never was more in earnest in my life.”

“And I am to understand that you have made Miss Morgenthau the object of your particular attentions—as you can’t deny you have done—and in that way have necessarily endeared yourself more or less to her—I am to understand that you have deliberately done this, without meaning eventually to make her your wife?”

“Particular attentions! I’ve paid her no particular attentions. I took a friendly interest in the girl, and behaved toward her in a friendly way. My wife! The notion never entered my head—nor hers, either, I’ll venture to say.”

“I can hardly believe it,” said the rabbi, shaking his head incredulously. “I don’t like to believe it. I don’t like to believe you capable of—of such—”

“Such what? What have I done? Is it my fault, if people jump to false conclusions? Am I to blame for their lack of sense? Can’t a young man be ordinarily polite and decent to a young girl, without every body fancying that he is spoony over her?”

“No, he can’t; not if you call it ordinarily polite and decent to visit a young lady regularly every week or so, and spend a couple of months at her side in the country. From that sort of politeness and decency, her parents always infer that he means matrimony. It gives the same impression to society, also, and frightens other young men away.”

“Well,” groaned Elias, “I suppose it’s needless for me to say I’m sorry. I am sorry; but that’s neither here nor there. If I had at all foreseen—But what’s the use of iffing? Now that you have opened my eyes, I’ll stop visiting her. That’s at once the least and most I can do. Well, I’m glad it went no further. So far, at any rate, no harm has been done.”

“No harm done! Well, I must say, your complacency astounds me. No harm done! You—you get a young girl’s expectations all aroused—get her heart set on you—get her and her family to taking for granted that you want to marry her—get the whole world to talking about her as your sweetheart—and then coolly dismiss the matter with a No harm done! No harm done, forsooth!”

“Oh, come,” protested Elias; “you exaggerate. It’s not so bad as all that. Whatever you and her uncle and the others may have suspected, she never misconstrued my feeling for her. She has too much good sense. Why, I never spoke a word to her that could, by torturing it even, be interpreted as any thing more than friendly. As for her heart being set upon me, and her expectations aroused, that’s rubbish, pure and simple rubbish.”

“Is it, though?” retorted the rabbi. “Her uncle didn’t seem to think so.”

“What do you mean?” cried Elias.

“I mean that Mr. Koch gave me to understand that Miss Morgenthau is in love with you.”

“Gave you to understand? Oh, you misunderstood.”

“I could scarcely have done that. He told me so in just so many words.”

“Well, then, he didn’t know what he was talking about.”

“Perhaps not; but he had it directly from Mrs. Morgenthau. When he asked why you didn’t pop the question, I said it might be that you were doubtful about what kind of an answer you’d get. Then he assured me that you could set your mind at rest on that score, for Mrs. Morgenthau had told him that Tillie thought all the world of you. The young girl has confided in her mother, as a young girl should.”

“Oh, this is horrible!” Elias gasped.

“Yes, horrible; I think that’s the right name for it, if what you say about your own feeling is true. If you don’t mean to marry her, I can’t see how it could be much worse. But now, honestly, are you sure you don’t?”

“Why, I tell you, I never thought of such a thing—never dreamed of it.”

“Well, it isn’t too late to think of it, even now. It’s a fine chance. I advise you to consider a little before you throw it away. She’d make you an excellent wife, and bring a snug sum of money with her. Mr. Koch mentioned something like twenty thousand dollars. You can have her for the asking. Such an opportunity may never occur again.”

“You speak as though it were a bargain—just as I should expect Mr. Blum to speak of what he calls a chop-lot. You don’t suppose I want her twenty thousand dollars? I have more money than I’ve any right to, already; I, who do nothing to earn any. I think it ought to settle the question, when I say I don’t love the girl.”

“What do you mean by love?”

“What is generally meant by love? I mean that I don’t care for her in any way except a friendly one.”

“Well, what do you mean by friendly?”

“I mean that I like her—just as a fellow might like his sister.”

“You make a distinction without a difference. Or rather, no; the difference is against you. Love, in the sense in which you use the word, isn’t what’s wanted. A strong liking, an affection, is more to the point. I was struck the other day, when looking in the dictionary, to find, among its other definitions, love defined as a ‘thin silk stuff.’ Well, affection is a stout woolen fabric. For matrimonial purposes, for daily wear and tear, the latter is by far the better.”

“There’s room for two opinions about that. I may be allowed to have my own.”

“Certainly; though your opinion would coincide with mine, if you were wiser. But let us confine ourselves to the practical aspects of the case. You say you like the young lady very much?”

“Yes, but—”

“Not so fast. Now, if you like her very much, would you not wish, if possible, to spare her the pain and the mortification of having her hopes in your regard disappointed?”

“If possible, of course. But it isn’t possible.”

“One moment. Now, don’t you think she’s a very estimable young woman? Don’t you think the man who got her for his wife would be a fortunate fellow?”

“Other things equal—that is, if he loved her—yes, I think so.”

“Well and good. Then what I want you to consider is this. In the first place, here is a young lady, whom you like very much, ready and willing to become your wife. You’ve got to take her or leave her. Unless you profit by your chances, and secure her now, you’ll have to give her up altogether, and lose her for good. In the second place—whether intentionally or unintentionally doesn’t matter—you have, by your assiduous devotion, contrived to win her love, and to cause her and her family to expect that you were going to ask for her hand in marriage. Consequently, in the event of your now abruptly breaking off with her, and discontinuing your visits, you will occasion the young lady herself much unmerited grief and humiliation, you’ll set busy-bodies far and wide to gossiping, and you’ll bring no end of odium down upon yourself. Consider these things, and you’ll see that you’ve got yourself into a very unpleasant situation, a very tight fix. There’s only one way out of it; but that way is strewn with roses. Matrimony! Marry her! Why, if I were in your place, I shouldn’t hesitate an instant.”

“If you were in my place, I don’t think you’d know what to do.”

“If I were in your place, I should congratulate myself. I should be thankful for my tremendous good-luck, in winning such a wife. Tillie Morgen-thau is a jewel, if there ever was one. She has certain peculiarities of manner, I admit; but six months of intimate association with you, would tone them down to nothing. She’s as pretty as a picture; she plays wonderfully; and her character is pure gold. Just think, boy, that this prize is within your grasp! Then, besides, you ought to get married, anyhow. Such an opportunity comes but once in a lifetime. I’m an old man; and I know what I’m talking about.”

“That may be; but that makes no difference. I simply repeat, I don’t love her, I’m not in love with her. I shall never be in love with any body. My capacity for loving has been exhausted. I shall remain a bachelor all my life.”

“Oh, you try my patience. Your talk is ............