“Leon’s right, mamma darling, the way you and papa were beaten out of your country—­”

“There’s not a day in your life you don’t curse it without knowing it!  Every time we three boys look at your son and our brother Mannie, born an—­an imbecile—­because of autocracy, we know what we’re fighting for.  We know.  You know, too.  Look at him over there, even before he was born, ruined by autocracy!  Know what I’m fighting for?  Why, this whole family knows!  What’s music, what’s art, what’s life itself in a world without freedom?  Every time, ma, you get to thinking we’ve got a fight with no one, all you have to do is look at our poor Mannie.  He’s the answer!  He’s the answer!”

In a foaming sort of silence, Mannie Kantor smiled softly from his chair beneath the pink-and-gold shade of the piano-lamp.  The heterogeneous sounds of women weeping had ceased.  Straight in her chair, her great shelf of bust heaving, sat Rosa Kantor, suddenly dry of eye; Isadore Kantor head up.  Erect now, and out from the embrace of her daughter, Sarah looked up at her son.

“What time do you leave, Leon?” she asked, actually firm of lip.

“Any minute, ma.  Getting late.”

This time she pulled her lips to a smile, waggling her forefinger.

“Don’t let them little devils of French girls fall in love with my dude in his uniform.”

Her pretense at pleasantry was almost more than he could bear.

“Hear!  Hear!  Our mother thinks I’m a regular lady-killer!  Hear that, Esther?”—­pinching her cheek.

“You are, Leon—­only—­only, you don’t know it.”

“Don’t you bring down too many beaus while I’m gone, either, Miss Kantor!”

“I—­won’t, Leon.”

Sotto voce to her:  “Remember, Esther, while I’m gone, the royalties from the Discaphone records are yours.  I want you to have them for pin-money and—­maybe a dowry?”

She turned from him.

“Don’t, Leon—­don’t—­”

“I like him!  Nice fellow, but too slow!  Why, if I were in his shoes, I’d have popped long ago.”

She smiled with her lashes dewy.

There entered then, in a violet-scented little whirl, Miss Gina Berg, rosy with the sting of a winter’s night, and, as usual, swathed in the high-napped furs.

“Gina!”

She was for greeting everyone, a wafted kiss to Mrs. Kantor, and then arms wide, a great bunch of violets in one outstretched hand, her glance straight sure and sparkling for Leon Kantor.

“Surprise—­everybody—­surprise!”

“Why, Gina—­we read—­we thought you were singing in Philadelphia to-night!”

“So did I, Esther darling, until a little bird whispered to me that Lieutenant Kantor was home on farewell leave.”

He advanced to her down the great length of room, lowering his head over her hand, his puttee-clad legs clicked together.

“You mean, Miss Gina—­Gina—­you didn’t sing?”