“No, no, Loo.  You go.  You can have that blue silk waist I promised you and wear them red satin roses he—­he brought me that time from Hot Springs.  Wear ’em, but be careful of ’em.”

“Aw, Miss Mae, with you here like a wet rag, and if he comes who’ll fix—­”

“He—­he ain’t coming, Loo, and if he does I’m the one he likes to fix his things, anyway.  I wanna be alone, Loo.  I—­I just wanna be alone.”

“That’s just it, Miss Mae, you’re too much alone; you—­”

“For Pete’s sake, Loo, cut it or I’ll holler.  Cut the conversation, dearie!”

“I’ll fix the candied sweet-potatoes this morning, anyway, Miss Mae, so if he does come—­”

“I tell you I’m going to yell, Loo, if you mention bill of fare to me.  Cover up my feet, like a good girl, and take them bottles out and lemme sleep.  My head’ll bust if I don’t get some sleep.”

“I tell you, Miss Mae, there ain’t one of ’em is worth more than his bank-book.  You’re always giving away everything you got, Miss Mae.  Honest, you’d give your best blue silk coat off your back if—­”

“If that’s what you’re hinting for, Loo, for pity’s sake take it!  I don’t want it.  It’s too tight for me in the arms.  Take it, Loo.  I don’t want it.  I don’t want anything but to be let alone.”

“Aw, now, Miss Mae, I didn’t mean—­”

“Get out, I tell you!  Get out!”

“Yes, Miss Mae.”  With a final pat to the rug across Mae Munroe’s feet she scooped the litter of empty bottles under one arm and hurried out smiling and closing the door softly behind her and tiptoeing down the hallway to the kitchen.

On the couch Mae Munroe lay huddled with her face to the wall, her cheeks crumpled against the white wool of the dog in her arms, her lips dry, each breath puffing them outward.  Easy tears would flow, enhancing her lacy disorder.  Noon slipped into afternoon.

The dusk of the city which is so immediately peppered with lights came gradually to press against the drawn blinds.  On the very crest of her unrest, as if her mental travail had stimulated a cocaine courage, Mae Munroe kicked aside the rug from her feet; rose and advanced to the wall telephone; unhooked the receiver; hooked it up again; unhooked it this time with a resolution that tightened and whitened her lips and sent the color high into her face; placed her mouth close to the transmitter.

“Broad three-six.”  And tapped with one foot as she stood.

“Zincas Importing Company?  I want to speak to Mr. Max Zincas.”

Wrinkles crawled about her uncertain lips.

“This is his—­his mother.  Yes, Mrs. Zincas.”

She closed her eyes as she waited.

“Hello, Max?  That you, Max?”

She grasped at the snout of the instrument, tiptoeing up to it.

“It’s me, dear.  But—­I had to get you to the ’phone somehow.  I—­I—­No, no, don’t hang up, Max!  Don’t hang up, dear, I—­I got to tell you something; I got to, dear.”