She would loiter out from the brief enchantment of “Two True Hearts” into the foggy dampness of Market Street, at twilight, eagerly grasping the suggestion of ice-cream sodas, because it meant a few minutes more with her friends.  Perhaps, sipping the frothy confection, Emeline would see some of the young actresses going by, just from the theatre, buttoned into long coats, their faces still rosy from cold cream; they must rush off for a light dinner, and be back at the theatre at seven.  At the sight of them a pang always shot through Emeline, an exquisite agony of jealousy seized her.  Oh, to be so busy, so full of affairs, to move constantly from one place to another—­now dragging a spangled gown, now gay as a peasant, now gaudily dressed as a page!

Emeline would finish her soda in silence, lift the over-dressed Julia from her chair, and start soberly for home.  Julia’s short little legs ached from the quick walk, yet she hated as much as her mother the plunge from brightly lighted O’Farrell Street into their own hall, so large and damp and dark, so odorous of stale beer and rubber floor covering.  A dim point of gas in a red shade covered with symmetrical glass blisters usually burned over the stairway, but the Pages’ apartment was dark, except for a dull reflected light from the street.  Perhaps Julia and her mother would find George there, with his coat and shoes off, and his big body flung down across the bed, asleep.  George would wake up slowly, with much yawning and grumbling, Emeline would add her gloves and belt to the unspeakable confusion of the bureau, and Julia would flatten her tired little back against the curve of an armchair and follow with heavy, brilliant eyes the argument that always followed.

“Well, we could get some chops—­chops and potatoes—­and a can of corn,” Emeline would grudgingly admit, as she tore off her tight corsets with a great gasp of relief, and slipped into her kimono, “or you could get some spaghetti and some mangoes at the delicatessen—­”

“Oh, God, cut out the delicatessen stuff!” George invariably said; “me for the chops, huh, Julie?”

“Or—­we could all go somewhere,” Emeline might submit tentatively.

“Nit,” George would answer.  “Come on, Ju, we’ll go buy a steak!”

But he was not very well pleased with his dinner, even when he had his own way.  When he and Julia returned with their purchases Emeline invariably met them at the top of the stairs.

“We need butter, George, I forgot to tell you—­you’ll have to go back!” she would say.  Julia, tired almost beyond endurance, still preferred to go with her father.

There was not enough gas heat under Emeline’s frying pan to cook a steak well; George growled as he cut it.  Emeline jumped up for forgotten table furnishings; grease splashed on the rumpled cloth.  After the one course the head of the house would look about hungrily.

“No cheese in the house, I suppose?”