"But to go over there to live! Why, that neighborhood's full of
dirt, and disease, and crime, and the Lord knows what all. I
can't let you do that, Carrie."

Carrie's chin came up. She laughed a short little laugh. "Let
me! That's eighteenth-century talk, Jo. My life's my own to
live. I'm going."

And she went.

Jo stayed on in the apartment until the lease was up. Then he
sold what furniture he could, stored or gave away the rest, and
took a room on Michigan Avenue in one of the old stone mansions
whose decayed splendor was being put to such purpose.

Jo Hertz was his own master. Free to marry. Free to come and
go. And he found he didn't even think of marrying. He didn't
even want to come or go, particularly. A rather frumpy old
bachelor, with thinning hair and a thickening neck.

Every Thursday evening he took dinner at Eva's, and on Sunday
noon at Stell's. He tucked his napkin under his chin and openly
enjoyed the homemade soup and the well-cooked meats. After
dinner he tried to talk business with Eva's husband, or Stell's.
His business talks were the old- fashioned kind, beginning:

"Well, now, looka here. Take, f'rinstance, your raw hides and
leathers."