But the trials of Mendel Marantz had only begun. The sensation of womanhood did not thrill his bosom, and the charms of housekeeping failed to allure him. A home like a warehouse on moving-day tumbled about him. The beds were upset, the table and floor were littered with breakfast leavings, the cupboard was bare, the dishes were piled in the sink, the dust had gathered already as if cleaning were a lost art, and the general atmosphere was one of dejection, confusion, chaos. The magic touch of the housewife revealed itself by its absence. Zelde had now proved to him conclusively that her presence and service were essential to his comfort. As if he had ever questioned the fact. Why did she go to all this trouble to drive home a point? “Zelde, a glass tea,” he used to say, and the tea stood steaming hot before him. “Zelde, it’s a draft. Shut up the window,” and presently the draft was gone. “Zelde--” he would call, leaning back in his chair, but why torture himself with things that were no more? That night when Zelde arrived, masculine and businesslike, through with work and ready for supper, she beheld a pitiful spectacle. The house was in hopeless disorder. The children had managed that. The cat was on the table and Jakie was under it, while Lena kept him there with her foot. Sammy’s eye had been darkened by a flying saucer which Hymie let go in a moment of abandon. Everything was where it should not be. The kitchen furniture had been moved into the dining room and the feather beds were in the wash-tub. Mendel was nowhere within the range of Zelde’s call. “Where is papa?” she asked sharply, after calming the youngsters with her two convincing hands. “Everything is upside down. I betcha he didn’t do a thing all day. My goodness, that man will make me crazy!” A crashing sound as of dishes in hasty descent issued from the next room. Zelde and her retinue rushed to the scene of disaster. With one foot in the sink and the other on the wash-tub Mendel Marantz was poised on high, searching through the closet. Dishes, pans, bottles and rags lay scattered in ruined fragments beneath him. Zelde blazed. “Gozlen!” she almost shrieked. “What do you want up there!” Mendel steadied himself. His heart having missed a beat, he waited a moment, then answered quietly, “Iodin.” “What for iodin, what for?” She was still furious, but also a little anxious. “A small scratch,” he explained without moving. “My finger got caught--under the meat-chopper.” “Oi! You clumsy! And what’s all the rags and the water on the floor?” “To put by my side and my leg. I--slipped and--the gas-range fell on me. My ankle turned around. The soup was good and hot. Maybe you got something for burns?” Zelde was a little less furious and a little more anxious. “Then what are you climbing on the walls for? Go in bed. Go--you look broken in pieces!” She sighed heavily and shook her head.