dinner downtown. Meet
at seven."

Into this orderly smooth-running mechanism was catapulted a bewildered
old man. She no longer called him Pop. He never dreamed of squeezing the
plump arm or pinching the smooth cheek. She called him Father. Sometimes
George's Father. Sometimes, when she was telephoning, there came to
him--"George's father's living with us now, you know. I can't."

They were very kind to him, Nettie and George. "Now just you sit right
down here, Father. What do you want to go poking off into your own room
for?"

He remembered that in the last year Nettie had said something about
going back to work. There wasn't enough to do around the house to keep
her busy. She was sick of afternoon parties. Sew and eat, that's all,
and gossip, or play bridge. Besides, look at the money. Business was
awful. The two old people had resented this idea as much as George
had--more, in fact. They were scandalized.

"Young folks nowdays!" shaking their heads. "Young folks nowdays. What
are they thinking of! In my day when you got married you had babies."

George and Nettie had had no babies. At first Nettie had said, "I'm so
happy. I just want a chance to rest. I've been working since I was
seventeen. I just want to rest, first." One year. Two years. Three. And
now Pa Minick.

Ma Minick, in the old house on Ellis Avenue, had kept a loose sort of
larder; not lavish, but plentiful. They both ate a great deal, as old
people are likely to do. Old man Minick, especially, had liked to
nibble. A handful of raisins from the box on the shelf. A couple of nuts
from the dish on the sideboard. A bit of candy rolled beneath the
tongue. At dinner (sometimes, toward the last, even at noon-time) a
plate of steaming soup, hot, revivifying, stimulating. Plenty of this
and plenty of that. "What's the matter, Jo? You're not eating." But he
was, amply. Ma Minick had liked to see him eat too much. She was wrong,
of course.

But at Nettie's things were different. Hers was a sufficient but stern
menage. So many mouths to feed; just so many lamb chops. Nettie knew
about calories and vitamines and mysterious things like that, and talked
about them. So many calories in this. So many calories in that. He never
was quite clear in his mind about these things said to be lurking in his
food. He had always thought of spinach as spinach, chops as chops. But
to Nettie they were calories. They lunched together, these two. George
was, of course, downtow