"I did," Emeline answered, biting a loose thread from a finger of her dirty white gloves. "I got Toomey's rent, and told them that we might want the room on the first." "Going to give up the flat?" Julia asked, in surprise. "Well"--Emeline glanced at her husband--"it's this way, Ju," said she: "Papa can't stand the city, sick as he is now--" George coughed loosely in confirmation of this, and shook his head. "And Papa's got a half interest in a little fruit ranch down in Santa Clara Valley," Emeline pursued. "So I'm going to take him down there for a little while, and nurse him back to real good health." "My God, Em, you'll die!" Mrs. Tarbury said frankly. "Why'n't you go somewhere where there's something doing?" "My sporting days are over, Min," George said with mournful satisfaction. "No more midnight suppers in mine!" "Nor mine, either. I guess I'm old enough to settle down," Emeline added cheerfully. She and Mrs. Tarbury exchanged a look, and Julia knew exactly what concessions her mother had made before the reconciliation; knew just how sincere this unworldly wifely devotion was. "Doc says I am to have fresh air, and light, nourishing foods, and quiet nights," George explained, gravely important. "And what about Julie?" asked Mrs. Tarbury. "Well, we thought we'd leave Julie here, Min," Emeline began comfortably, "until we see if it works. Then in, say, a month--" "Mama, you can't!" Julia interrupted, cheeks hot with shame. "Aunt Min's got to rent that room--" "You see how it is, Em," the lady of the house explained regretfully: "Connie's gone off on the road now, and Rose Ransome's gone to Virginia City, and there's a party and wife that'll give me twenty a month for the room. And as it happens I'm full up now, Em--" "Well, of course we'll pay--" George was beginning, somewhat haughtily, but Emeline, who had grown rather red, interrupted: "It don't make the slightest difference," she said, with spirit. "I guess I'm the last woman in the world to want my child to stay where she isn't welcome!" "It ain't that at all, Em," Mrs. Tarbury threw in pacifically, but Emeline was well launched now. "If it hadn't been that George was all but passing away with kidney trouble," Emeline said, her voice rising, "I never would of let such an arrangement go on for five minutes! But there was days when we never knew from hour to hour that George wasn't dying, and what with having him moved and that woman holding up his clothes, and telling the doctor lies about me, I guess I had troubles enough without worrying about Julie. But I want to tell you right now, Min," said Emeline, with kindly superiority, "that this isn't the kind of a house I'm crazy about having my daughter in, anyway. It ain't you, so much--" "Ha! that's good!" Mrs. Tarbury interpolated, with a sardonic laugh. "But you know very well that such girls as Rosie and Con--" Emeline rushed on.