CHAPTER II
MAX occupied the top floor of an old private house on Henry Street, a small "railroad" apartment of two large, bright rooms—a living-room and a kitchen—with two small, dark bedrooms between them. The ceiling was low and the air somewhat tainted with the odor of mold and dampness. I found Max in the general living-room, which was also a dining-room, a fat boy of three on his lap and a slender, pale girl of eight on a chair close by. His wife, a slender young woman with a fine white complexion and serious black eyes, was clearing away the lunch things
"Mrs. Margolis, Mr. Levinsky," he introduced us. "Plainly speaking, this is my wifey and this is a friend of mine."
As she was leaving the room for the kitchen he called after her,
"Dvorah! Dora! make some tea, will you?"
She craned her neck and gave him a look of resentment. "It's a good thing you are telling me that," she said. "Otherwise I shouldn't know what I have got to do, should I?"
When she had disappeared he explained to me that he variously addressed her by the Yiddish or English form of her name
"We are plain Yiddish folk," he generalized, good-humoredly
A few minutes later, as Mrs. Margolis placed a glass of Russian tea before me, he drew her to him and pinched her white cheek
"What do you think of my wifey, Levinsky?"
She smiled—a grave, deprecating smile—and took to pottering about the house