Hundred and Twenty-Fifth Street. In reconsidering the matter, however, she decided that she would go farther downtown. There was a greater possibility of meeting some one she knew in Harlem.
On Eighth Avenue in the Forties Lillian found pawn-shops. She was diffident about entering. What did you say to the man? Did you have to have proof that the article really belonged to you?
She stood before one shop for several minutes, pretending to admire the display of stringed instruments. Actually she was waiting for a moment when there would be nobody passing. It would be awful to have people staring at her as she walked into a pawn-shop. People continued to pass. Inside the shop the pawnbroker watched Lillian, though he seemed to be tinkering with the inside of a wrist watch. Acquainted with the foibles and follies of human nature, the pawnbroker knew what Lillian was waiting for. He in turn waited for her to realize that people would pass his shop all day in endless procession.
At last he heard the door open. He looked up at her as she advanced toward the counter.
"Hot, isn't it?" he said unexpectedly.
"I should say so," Lillian returned. She slipped the ring off her finger and laid it before him. She began to giggle. The pawnbroker was not surprised. Many people laughed and asked just as she asked, carelessly and just as though it didn't matter, "How much can I get for that—fifteen cents?"
He looked at her as he reached for the ring. Plump, shabby, too much makeup. Pretty anyhow and young.
