A spring twilight was closing down upon O’Farrell Street.  In the row of houses opposite Emeline could see slits of gaslight behind lowered shades, and could look straight into the second floor of the establishment that flourished behind a large sign bearing the words, “O’Connor, Modes.”  This row of bay-windowed houses had been occupied as homes by very good families when the Pages first came to O’Farrell Street, but six years had seen great changes in the block.  A grocery and bar now occupied the corner, facing the saloon above which the Pages lived, and the respectable middle-class families had moved away, one by one, giving place to all sorts of business enterprises.  Milliners and dressmakers took the first floors, and rented the upper rooms; one window said “Mme. Claire, Palmist,” and another “Violin Lessons”; one basement was occupied by a dealer in plaster statuary, and another by a little restaurant.  Most interesting of all to the stageloving Emeline was the second floor, obliquely opposite her own, which bore an immense sign, “Gottoli, Wigs and Theatrical Supplies.  Costumes of all sorts Designed and on Hand.”  Between Gottoli’s windows were two painted panels representing respectively a very angular, moustached young man in a dress suit, and a girl in a Spanish dancer’s costume, with a tambourine.  Gottoli did not do a very flourishing business, but Emeline watched his doorway by the hour, and if ever her dreams came back now, it was at these times.

To-night Julia went to sleep in her arms; she was an unexacting little girl, accustomed to being ignored much of the time, and humoured, over-indulged, and laughed at at long intervals.  Emeline sat on and on, crying now and then, and gradually reducing herself to a more softened mood, when she longed to be dear to George again, to please and content him.  She had just made up her mind that this was no neighbourhood for ideal home life, when George, smelling strongly of whiskey, but affectionate and repentant, came in.

“What doing?” asked George, stumbling in the dark room.

“Just watching the cable cars go up and down,” Emeline said, rousing.  She set the dazed Julia on her feet, and groped for matches on the mantel.  A second later the stifling odour of block matches drifted through the room, and Emeline lighted a gas jet.

“Had your supper?” said she, as George sat down and took the child into his arms.

“Nope,” he answered, grinning ashamedly.  “Thought maybe you and I’d go to dinner somewheres, Em.”

Emeline was instantly her better self.  While she flew into her best clothes she told George that she knew she was a rotten manager, but she was so darn sick of this darn flat—­She had just been sitting there wondering if they hadn’t better move into the country, say into Oakland.  Her sister May lived there, they might get a house near May, with a garden for Julia, and a spare room where George could put up a friend.