“Thank you,” said she.
And then, with undisguised curiosity, she and I just stood and scanned each other for a moment from the corners of our eyes. For my part, I was too bashful to make any advances, though I should have liked to scrape acquaintance with her; but she, apparently, had more courage, for, pretty soon, “What's your name?” she asked.
“My name is Gregory Brace. What's yours?”
“Mine is Rosalind Earle. How old are you?”
“I'm twelve, going on thirteen.”
“I'm eleven, going on twelve.”
And the next instant she had vanished like a flash.
Mr. Flisch shortly followed her; and it may have been a quarter of an hour later on, that my attention was suddenly arrested by the sound of music issuing from the back room, where Mr. Finkelstein remained alone. I recognized the tune as the Carnival of Venice; and it brought my heart into my mouth, for that was one of the tunes that my grandmother had used to play upon her piano. But now the instrument was not a piano. Unless my ears totally deceived me, it was a hand-organ. This struck me as very odd; and I went to the door of the parlor, and looked in. There sat Mr. Finkelstein, a newspaper open before him, and a cigar between his fingers, reading and smoking; while on the floor in front of him, surely enough, stood a hand-organ; and, with his foot upon the crank of it, he was operating the instrument just as you would operate the wheel of a bicycle.
