"A stranger has got more consideration. I count for nothing. Less than
nothing. I'm in the way. I don't interfere in that household. I see
enough, and I hear enough, but I say nothing. My son's wife, she says it
all."

A silence, thoughtful, brooding. Then, from Mrs. Wormser: "What good do
you have of your children? They grow up, and what do you have of them?"

More shaking of heads, and a dark murmur about the advisability of an
Old People's Home as a refuge. Then:

"My son Hugo said only yesterday, 'Ma,' he said, 'when it comes to
housekeeping you could teach them all something, believe me. Why,' he
says, 'if I was to try and get a cup of coffee like this in a
restaurant--well, you couldn't get it in a restaurant, that's all. You
couldn't get it in any hotel, Michigan Avenue or I don't care where.'"

Goaded, Mrs. Lamb would look up from her knitting. "Mark my words, he'll
marry yet." She was a sallow, lively woman, her hair still markedly
streaked with black. Her rheumatism-twisted fingers were always
grotesquely busy with some handiwork, and the finished product was a
marvel of perfection.

Mrs. Wormser, plump, placid, agreed. "That's the kind always marries
late. And they get it the worst. Say, my son was no spring chicken,
either, when he married. And you would think the sun rises and sets in
his wife. Well, I suppose it's only natural. But you wait."

"Some girl is going to have a snap." Mrs. Brunswick, eager, peering, a
trifle vindictive, offered final opinion. "The girls aren't going to let