“S’more?”

“Yah-h-h-h-h-h!”

“Such a cotton mouth my bad boy brought home.”

“Aha!  Fee, fie, fum!  Aha!”

“I broiled it under the single burner, Max, slow like you like.  Here, you carve it, dearie.  Just like always, eh?”

His fleshy, blue-shaved face took on the tenseness of concentrated effort, and he cut deep into the oozing beef, the red juice running out in quick streams.

“Ah-h-h-h-h!”

“No, no, you keep that, Max; it’s your rare piece.”

“Gravy?”

“Yes, dearie.”

The small dog shook himself and rose from sleep and the depths of a pillow, nosing at her bare elbow.

“Was muvver’s ittsie Snookie Ookie such a hungry bow-wow?”

He yapped shortly, pawing her.

“Ask big bossie sitting over there carving his din-din if him got chocolate tandy in him pocket like always for Snookie Ookie.  No, no, bad red meat no good for ittsie bittsie bow-wow.  Go ask big bossie what him got this time in him pocket for Snookie.  Aw, look at him, Max; he remembers how you used to bring him—­”

“Get down!  Get down, I said!  For God’s sake get that little red-eyed, mangy cur out of here while we’re eating, can’t you?  Good gad! can’t a man eat a meal in this joint without having that dirty cur whining around?  Get him down off your dress there, Mae.  Get out, you little cur!  G-e-t out!”

“Max!”

“Chocolate candy in my pocket.  Chocolate arsenic, you mean!  My damn-fool days are over.”

“What’s got you, Max?  Didn’t you buy him for me yourself that day at the races five whole years ago?  Wasn’t the first things you asked for, when you woke in the hospital with your burns, me and—­and Snookie?  What’s soured you, Max?  What?  What?”

“I’m soured on seeing a strapping, healthy woman sniveling over a little sick-eyed cur.  Ain’t that enough to sour any man?  Why don’t you get up and out and exercise yourself like the right kind of wimmin do?  Play tennis or get something in you besides the rotten air of this flat, and mewling over that sick-eyed cur.  Get out!  Scc-c-c-c-c!”

The animal bellied to the door, tail down, and into the rear darkness of the hallway.

“Max, what’s got you?  What do I know about tennis or—­things like that?  You—­you never used to want—­things like that.”

“Aw, what’s the use of wasting breath?”

He flecked at his mustache, inserting the napkin between the two top buttons of his slight bay of waistcoat; carved a second helping of meat, masticating with care and strength so that his temples, where the hair thinned and grayed, contracted and expanded with the movements of his jaws.

“What’s the use?”

“Max, I—­”

“Thigh bother you?”

“A—­a little.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to spare expense on trying new doctors if—­”

“That ain’t my real trouble, Max; it—­”