Zelde felt like a stranger. They did not seem to know that she was present. She tried to interfere. “Don’t put water in soup, Jakie! Better blow on it.” But the little boy slipped down from the chair without noticing her, wriggled out from under the table, and soon returned, gaily carrying a cup of sink-water. Her maternal instinct rebelled. “No!” she said warningly, as Jakie tilted the cup over the plate of bean-soup. But the child, with his eyes fixed on Mendel, poured the contents bravely. Zelde slapped his hand, and the cup fell with a clatter. It was not a hard blow, but an impulsive one. It created a strained and awkward silence. Jakie burst into tears. He ran to Mendel and buried his little face in daddy’s lap. Lena began to whimper in sympathy. Something snapped in Zelde. Her appetite was gone. She rose and went into the bedroom and shut the door behind her. She did not want them to hear her sobs. It had all turned out so different! Instead of driving Mendel to work she had driven herself into exile. Mendel the housewife was now further from ever getting a man’s job than Mendel the idler had ever been. Zelde felt she had made a grave mistake. Rather should she have permitted him to idle and mope--he would have tired of it eventually--than that he should be wrongly occupied and contented. If only she could undo what she had done, she’d be satisfied. “After all, a house to manage is for a woman,” she began, bent upon re-establishing the old order. “A man should do housework? It can make him crazy yet!” “I believe you,” Mendel conceded. “It don’t look like housework should agree with you,” she observed. “Looks is deceiving.” There was a pause. A good deal of understanding passed between them. “Mendel, hard work will kill you yet,” she insisted. “So will idleness--in the long run. What is death? An appointment. You got to keep it some time.” “But you don’t look good.” “I don’t feel bad.” Zelde became a little dizzy. Did he mean to say that he intended to stick to housework? She tried to tempt him. “Wouldn’t you like, like you used to, to have nothing to do, and sit and cross your legs, and, without you should move, somebody should bring you hot tea?” Mendel blew rings of smoke at the ceiling. Zelde continued, scarcely breathing. “And wouldn’t you like to lie on the couch with your hands together behind your head and look on the sky from the window and dream what a great inventor you are?” An impressive silence followed. On Mendel’s face were fleeting traces of an inner struggle. “And--I’ll clean the house,” she added softly to clear any doubts that he might still have. Mendel shook his head. “It’ll be too hard for you,” he said gallantly. “It’s not such a terrible!” “I haven’t the heart to let you,” he complained feebly. “You’ll get over it.” His tone became firmer.