They all drank as they played, the room would get very warm, and reek of
tobacco and of whiskey and beer. Sometimes Julia woke up with a
terrified shout, and then, if Emeline were playing, she would get
George, or one of the other men or women, to go in and quiet the little
girl. These games would not break up until two or three o'clock. Emeline
would be playing excitedly, her face flushed, her eyes shining, every
fibre of her being alert, when suddenly the life would seem to fade out
of the whole game. An overwhelming ennui would seize her, a cold,
clear-eyed fatigue--the cards would seem meaningless, a chill would
shake her, a need of yawning. The whole company would be suddenly
likewise affected, the game would break up with a few brief words, and
Emeline, going in with her guests to help them with hats and wraps,
would find herself utterly silent, too cold and weary for even the most
casual civilities. When the others had gone, she and George would turn
the lights out on the wreckage of the dining-room, and stagger silently
to bed.

Fatigue would follow Emeline well into the next day after one of these
card parties. If George was going out of town, she would send Julia off
to play with other children in the house, and lie in bed until noon,
getting up now and then to hold a conversation with some tradesman
through a crack in the door. At one she might sally forth in her
favourite combination of wrapper and coat to buy cream and rolls, and
Julia would be regaled on sausages, hot cakes, bakery cookies, and
coffee, or come in to find no lunch at all, and that her mother had gone
out for the afternoon.

Emeline had grown more and more infatuated with the theatre and all that
pertained to it. She went to matinees twice a week, and she and her