apartment was dark, except for a dull reflected light from the street.
Perhaps Julia and her mother would find George there, with his coat and
shoes off, and his big body flung down across the bed, asleep. George
would wake up slowly, with much yawning and grumbling, Emeline would add
her gloves and belt to the unspeakable confusion of the bureau, and
Julia would flatten her tired little back against the curve of an
armchair and follow with heavy, brilliant eyes the argument that always
followed.

"Well, we could get some chops--chops and potatoes--and a can of corn,"
Emeline would grudgingly admit, as she tore off her tight corsets with a
great gasp of relief, and slipped into her kimono, "or you could get
some spaghetti and some mangoes at the delicatessen--"

"Oh, God, cut out the delicatessen stuff!" George invariably said; "me
for the chops, huh, Julie?"

"Or--we could all go somewhere," Emeline might submit tentatively.

"_Nit_," George would answer. "Come on, Ju, we'll go buy a steak!"

But he was not very well pleased with his dinner, even when he had his
own way. When he and Julia returned with their purchases Emeline
invariably met them at the top of the stairs.

"We need butter, George, I forgot to tell you--you'll have to go back!"
she would say. Julia, tired almost beyond endurance, still preferred to
go with her father.

There was not enough gas heat under Emeline's frying pan to cook a steak