Emeline had gotten a fairly tempting dinner under way.  She could cook some things well, and at five o’clock she came in from the kitchen with an appetizing tray.

“Gosh, is it dinner time?” asked George.

“After five,” Emeline said, flitting about the bed-room.  Julia had come home now, sweet and tired, and was silently eating slice after slice of bread and jelly.  Emeline opened out the bed lounge, spread sheets and blankets smoothly, and flung a clean little nightgown for Julia across the foot.  Darkness had fallen outside; she lighted the gas and drew the shades.

“This is comfortable!” said George.  “I wouldn’t mind being sick now and then at this rate!  Come over here and undress near Pop, Julie.  I’ll tell you what, Em—­you call down the air shaft to Cass, and tell him to send Henny up to make us a nice little coal fire here.  I’ll give Henny a quarter.”

“She’s gone into the bathroom to fix her hair and wash her face,” Julia observed, as Emeline did not answer.  A second later the child jumped up to answer a sharp knock on the door.

To George’s disgust it was Emeline’s friend, Mrs. Marvin Povey, who came in.  Mrs. Povey was a tightly corseted, coarse-voiced, highly coloured little blonde, breathless now from running upstairs.  Her sister, Myrtle Montague, was an ingenue in the little stock company at the Central Theatre, and Mrs. Povey kept house for her and Mr. Povey, who spent all his waking hours at the racetrack.  The Poveys’ flat was only a block away from the Pages’.

George was furious to have this woman, whom he particularly detested, come in upon him thus informally, and find him at so great a disadvantage.  His neck was better, but he could not move it very easily still; he was trapped here in blankets like a baby; he was acutely conscious of his three days’ beard, of Julia’s bed made up in the middle of the drawing-room, and of Julia’s self, partly disrobed, and running about in the general disorder.

“Well, how does the other feller look?” said Mrs. Povey, laughing good-naturedly.  “You look like you’d broke out of San Quentin, George, with that face!  Hello, darlin’,” she added, waylaying Julia.  “When are you going to come and be Aunt Mame’s girl, huh?  Going to come home with me to-night?”

“Em!” bellowed George, with only a sickly smile for the guest.  “Em!”

“My God, what is it now?” said Emeline sweetly, popping in her head.  “Oh, hello, Mame!” she added, coming in.  “Where’s the rest of the girls?”

“They’ve all blew up to the house with Myrt,” said Mrs. Povey, staring blankly at Emeline.  “But say, ain’t you going, dear?”

“Wait till I get my dress on, and we’ll talk it over while I hook up,” Emeline said, disappearing again.  She did not glance at George.

“Myrt’s in a new show, and a few of us girls are going to see that she gets a hand,” Mrs. Povey said.  “We’re going to have supper at my house.  Mary will have some of the boys there.”