"Get out of the way!" he growled threateningly, clenching his fists. "These are mine!" she cried and threw the whole heap of dishes at his feet with such force that they broke into little bits. "You cow!" "You fool!" "Please ma'am, let me have the money for breakfast," said the maid, at that instant entering. "Let my husband give it to you!" answered Cabinska, and with a proud stride, went into the next room, slamming the door after her. "Let me have the money, sir. It's late and the children are crying!" He laid a ruble on the table, brushed his top hat with his sleeve and departed. The nurse took a pitcher and a basket for rolls and went out. The Cabinskis had no more time to think of their household than of their children, and cared for nothing, absorbed entirely by the theater, their roles, and their struggle for success. The canvas walls of the stage scenes and decorations representing elegant salons and interiors sufficed them entirely; there they breathed more freely and felt better. In the same way a canvas scene depicting some wild landscape with a castle on the summit of a chocolate-colored hill and a wood painted below sufficed them as a substitute for real fields and woods. The smell of mastic, cosmetics, and perfume were to them the sweetest odors. They merely came home to sleep, their real home, where they lived habitually, was on the stage and behind the scenes. Cabinski had been in the theater some twenty years, playing continually, and still, he desired each new role for himself and envied others. Pepa never took account of anything, but listened only to her momentary instinct and sometimes to her husband. She doted on the melodrama, on strained and nerve-thrilling situations; she liked a sweeping gesture, an exalted tone of voice, and glaring novelties. Her pathos was often of the exaggerated variety, but she played with fervor. A certain play, or some accent or word would move her so deeply that even after leaving the stage she would still shed real tears behind the scenes. She knew her parts better than anyone else, for she would memorize them with mechanical precision. For her children she cared about as much as for her old dresses: she bore them and left them to the care of her husband and the nurse. Immediately after Cabinski's departure Pepa called through the door, "Nurse, come here!" The nurse had just returned with the coffee and the boys whom she had dragged in from the yard with difficulty. She served the breakfast to the children and promised: "Eddy . . . you will get a pair of new shoes . . . papa will buy them for you. Teddy will get a new suit and Jadzia a dress . . . Drink your coffee, dears!" She patted their heads, handed them the rolls and wiped their faces with maternal solicitude. She loved them and fussed over them as though they were her own children. "Nurse!" shouted Cabinska, sticking her head through the door. "Yes, I hear you." "Where is Tony?" "She's gone to the laundry."