"Miss Schimpf," he said pleadingly, "do me the favour and don't make such a Geschrei every time somebody comes in the office. Goes through me like a knife yet."
Max Schindelberger's smile took on the quality of indulgency as he advanced slowly toward B. Lesengeld.
"How do you do, Mr. Lesengeld?" he said, proffering his hand; and after glancing suspiciously at the extended palm Lesengeld took it in a limp clasp.
"I already suscribed to that—now—asylum, ain't it?" Lesengeld began, for his experienced eye had at once noted the fraternal society charm, the I.O.M.A. lapel button, and the white tie that proclaimed Max to be a philanthropist.
Max laughed as heartily as he could.
"Ain't it funny," he said, "how just so soon as anybody sees me they think I am going to do something charitable? As a matter of fact, Mr. Lesengeld, I am coming here to see you on a business matter which really it ain't my business at all."
Lesengeld grudgingly held open the door, and Max squeezed past him.
"You got a comfortable place here, Mr. Lesengeld," he began, "plain and old-fashioned, but comfortable."
Lesengeld removed some dusty papers from a chair.
"It suits me," he said. "Take a seat, Mr. ——"