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“I’ve been slaving all day. I guess I’ve got the right to a little amusement. A man works his fingers to the bone for his family, and then his own daughter nags him.”

He stamped down the hall, righteously, and slammed the front door.

Rose came from the kitchen, the pink blouse, warm from the iron, in one hand. She prinked out its ruffles and pleatings as she went. Floss, burnishing her nails somewhat frantically with a dilapidated and greasy buffer, snatched the garment from her and slipped bare arms into it. The front door bell rang, three big, determined rings. Panic fell upon the household.

“It’s him!” whispered Floss, as if she could be heard in the entrance three floors below. “You’ll have to go.”

“I can’t!” Every inch of her seemed to shrink and cower away from the thought. “I can’t!” Her eyes darted to and fro like a hunted thing seeking to escape. She ran to the hall. “Al! Al, go to the door, will you?”

“Can’t,” came back in a thick mumble. “Shaving.”

The front door-bell rang again, three big, determined rings. “Rose!” hissed Floss, her tone venomous. “I can’t go with my waist open. For heaven’s sake! Go to the door!”

“I can’t,” repeated Rose, in a kind of wail. “I–can’t.” And went. As she went she passed one futile, work-worn hand over her hair, plucked off her apron and tossed it into; a corner, first wiping her flushed face with it.

Henry Selz came up the shabby stairs springily as a man of forty should. Rose stood at the door and waited for him. He stood in the doorway a moment, uncertainly.

“How-do, Henry.”

His uncertainty became incredulity. Then, “Why, how-do, Rose! Didn’t know you–for a minute. Well, well! It’s been a long time. Let’s see–ten–fourteen–about fifteen years, isn’t it?”

His tone was cheerfully conversational. He really was interested, mathematically. He was as sentimental in his reminiscence as if he had been calculating the lapse of time between the Chicago fire and the World’s Fair.

“Fifteen,” said Rose, “in May. Won’t you come in? Floss’ll be here in a minute.”

Henry Selz came in and sat down on the davenport couch and dabbed at his forehead. The years had been very kind to him–those same years that had treated Rose so ruthlessly. He had the look of an outdoor man; a man who has met prosperity and walked with her, and followed her pleasant ways; a man who has learned late in life of golf and caviar and tailors, but who has adapted himself to these accessories of wealth with a minimum of friction.

“It certainly is warm, for this time of year.” He leaned back and regarded Rose tolerantly. “Well, and how’ve you been? Did little sister tell you how flabbergasted I was when I saw her this morning? I’m darned if it didn’t take fifteen years off my age, just like that! I got kind of balled up for one minute and thought it was you. She tell you?”

“Yes, she told me,” said Rose.

“I hear your ma’s still sick. That certainly is tough. And you’ve never married, eh?”

“Never married,” echoed Rose.

And so they made conversation, a little uncomfortably, until there came quick, light young steps down the hallway, and Floss appeared in the door, a radiant, glowing, girlish vision. Youth was in her eyes, her cheeks, on her lips. She radiated it. She was miraculously well dressed, in her knowingly simple blue serge suit, and her tiny hat, and her neat shoes and gloves.

“Ah! And how’s the little girl to-night?” said Henry Selz.

Floss dimpled, blushed, smiled, swayed. “Did I keep you waiting a terribly long time?”

“No, not a bit. Rose and I were chinning over old times, weren’t we, Rose?” A kindly, clumsy thought struck him. “Say, look here, Rose. We’re going to a show. Why don’t you run and put on your hat and come along. H’m? Come on!”

Rose smiled as a mother smiles at a child that has unknowingly hurt her. “No, thanks, Henry. Not to-night. You and Floss run along. Yes, I’ll remember you to Ma. I’m sorry you can’t see her. But she don’t see anybody, poor Ma.”