"You leave him out! Anyways, he's got fine feeling for something besides--sausages." "Is it a crime, Renie, that I should want so much your happiness? Your papa's getting a old man now, Renie; I won't always be here, neither." "For the love of Mike, what's the row? Can't a fellow get any beauty sleep round this here shebang? What are you two cutting up about?" The portières parted to reveal Mr. Isadore Shongut, pressed, manicured, groomed, shaved--something young about him; something conceited; his magenta bow tied to a nicety, his plushlike hair brushed up and backward after the manner of fashion's latest caprice, and smoothing a smooth hand along his smooth jowl. "Morning, ma. What's the row, Renie? Gee! it's a swell joint round here for a fellow with nerves! What's the row, kid?" Mr. Isadore Shongut made a cigarette and puffed it, curled himself in a deep-seated chair, with his head low and his legs flung high. His sister lay on the divan, with her tearful profile buried, _basso-rilievo_, against a green velours cushion, her arms limp and dangling in exhaustion. "What's the row, Renie?" "N-nothing." "Aw, come out with it--what's the row? What you sitting there for, ma, like your luck had turned on you?" "Ask--ask your sister, Izzy; she can tell you." "'Smater, sis?" "N-nothing--only--only--old--old Hochenheimer's coming to--to supper to-night, Izzy; and--" "Old Squash! Oh, Whillikens!" "Take me out, Izzy! Take me out anywhere--to a show or supper, or--or anywhere; but take me out, Izzy. Take me out before he comes." "Sure I will! Old Squash! Whillikens!" * * * * * At five o'clock Wasserman Avenue emerged in dainty dimity and silk sewing-bags. Rocking-chairs, tiptilted against veranda railings, were swung round front-face. Greetings, light as rubber balls, bounded from porch to porch. Fine needles flashed through dainty fabrics stretched like drum parchment across embroidery hoops; young children, shrilling and shouting in the heat of play, darted beneath maternal eyes; long-legged girls in knee-high skirts strolled up and down the sidewalks, arms intertwined. At five-thirty the sun had got so low that it found out Mrs. Schimm in a shady corner of her porch, dazzled her eyes, and flashed teasingly on her needle, so that she crammed her dainty fabric in her sewing-bag and crossed the paved street. "You don't mind, Mrs. Lissman, if I come over on your porch for a while, where it's shady?" "It's a pleasure, Mrs. Schimm. Come right up and have a rocker." "Just a few minutes I can stay." "That's a beautiful stitch, Mrs. Schimm. When I finish this centerpiece I start me a dozen doilies too." "I can learn it to you in five minutes, Mrs. Lissman. All my Birdie's trousseau napkins I did with this Battenberg stitch." "Grand!" "For a poor widow's daughter, Mrs. Lissman, that girl had a trousseau she don't need to be ashamed of."