The door closed; and mother and son were left looking at each other. Joe had the advantage, because the windows were at his back. He experienced no emotion at the sight of his mother. In eight years she had changed very much. That vigorous, peasant’s frame was broken. Her face which had once had the strength of apathy, looked sodden now. Her clothes . . . Ugh! Joe hoped she would not sit down on one of his chairs. She seemed incapable of speaking; and Joe felt no inclination to help her out. It was a settled maxim with him, to make the other party speak first. He lit his cigarette with the greatest deliberation, and holding the lighted match high above the ash receiver, let it flicker down. Finally she stammered: “I seen the name and the address in a newspaper. . . . I come round to see if it was my Joe Kaplan. . . .” “Did you tell anybody in this building your name?” She shook her head. “I do’ want to make no trouble for you, Joe.” “What _do_ you want?” “Well, Joe. . . .” Speech failed her. With a falling hand, she indicated herself—then him. Joe regarded her thoughtfully; whistling between his teeth. After a silence, she began again. “Well, Joe . . . your fat’er is sick. He’s got the consumption. He’s like to die on me any day. . . .” “Isn’t that old geezer dead yet?” said Joe. “It takes all I kin earn to buy him his medicine, and a bit for the two of us to eat. I can’t save the rent. The landlord has pasted a notice on the door.” “Where’s Lulu?” asked Joe. “She left home when she was seventeen. I ain’t seen her since.” “Well, you can’t blame her.” “I ain’t blamin’ her.” “Was she good-lookin’?” “Yes. . . . God help her!” murmured the woman. “Oh, fudge!” said Joe. “. . . Where’s the boys?” “On the streets. They come home sometimes. I feeds them—if I has it.” “What do you want of me?” “Well, Joe . . . we’re your folks. . . .” “Cut it out!” said Joe with a gesture. “I’ve been told often enough that I’ve got no natural feelings. All right; I’m not going to make out to have any now. Home Sweet Home never meant nothing to me but a place to git away from. As for my father. . . . Gee! it made me sore even as a young kid to think that I sprung from _that_! The dirty, whining Jew! I’d do something handsome for you, if you could prove to me he wasn’t my father!” “You wouldn’t want him to be buried in Potters’ Field. . . .” “Why not? The main thing is to get him buried. A dead man rests just as comfortable in Potters’ Field as in Woodlawn!” “But the disgrace of it. . . .” “Aah! talk sense to me!” cried Joe, screwing up his face in irritation. “I’m a realist! Do you know what that means? You used to be one yourself. What’s come over you?” “I do’ know what’s come over me,” she muttered, wiping a hand over her face. “I don’t think about nothing no more. Don’t see no use in it. . . . I just go along. . . .” “Well, I’ve climbed out of that pigsty!” said Joe. “All by myself, I climbed out. I don’t owe nothing to you!”