"Then don't ever let me hear of your associating with her. The little girl that doesn't keep her own self-respect cannot expect others to respect her." "And you ought to see, papa, she always rides her tricycle down past Eddie Posner's house on Delmar just to show herself off to him." "Lilly, go wash your hands for supper. How is business, Ben?" "Nothing extra, Carrie." "Oh, I get so tired hearing a poor mouth. Sometimes I could just scream for wanting to do things we are not in a position to do. Go housekeeping, for instance, have a little home of my own--" "Now, now, little woman," at the invariable business of flecking his neat gray business suit with a whisk broom, "you got up on the wrong side of bed this morning. Lilly, suppose you shine papa's spectacles for him." "There is the supper bell. Quick, Ben and Lilly, before the Kembles." The dining room, directly over the basement kitchen, jutted in an ell off the rear of the house so that from the back parlor it was not difficult to precede the immediate overhead response to that bell. A black-faced genii of the bowl and weal, in a very dubiously white-duck coat thrust on hurriedly over clothing reminiscent of the day's window washing and furnace cinders, held attitude in among the small tables that littered the room. There were four. A long table seating ten and punctuated by two sets of cruets, two plates of bread, and two white-china water pitchers; Mr. Hazzard's tiny square of individual table, a perpetual bottle of brown medicine beside his place. The Kembles also enjoyed segregation from the mother table, the family invariably straggling in one by one. For the Beckers was reserved the slight bulge of bay window that looked out upon the Suburban street-car tracks and a battalion of unpainted woodsheds. A red geranium, potted and wrapped around in green crepe tissue paper, sprouted center table, a small bottle of jam and two condiments lending further distinction. A napkin with self-invented fasteners dangled from Mr. Becker's chair, and beside Lilly's place a sterling silver and privately owned knife and fork, monogrammed. To Mr. Becker, the negro race was largely and genetically christened Gawge, to be addressed solely in native patois. "Evenin', Gawge." "Evenin', Mistah Beckah." "George, are you going to take good care of my husband to-night? That piece of steak you served him yesterday wasn't fit to eat." "Law now, Mis' Beckah, kin I help it if de best de kitchen has ain't none too good?" "Don't tell me! I saw the piece you brought Mr. Kemble." "Now, Carrie ..." "What have we to-night, George?" "Fried steak, lamb, or corn'-beef hash."