"You leave him out! Anyways, he's got fine feeling for something besides—sausages."
"Is it a crime, Renie, that I should want so much your happiness? Your papa's getting a old man now, Renie; I won't always be here, neither."
"For the love of Mike, what's the row? Can't a fellow get any beauty sleep round this here shebang? What are you two cutting up about?"
The portières parted to reveal Mr. Isadore Shongut, pressed, manicured, groomed, shaved—something young about him; something conceited; his magenta bow tied to a nicety, his plushlike hair brushed up and backward after the manner of fashion's latest caprice, and smoothing a smooth hand along his smooth jowl.
"Morning, ma. What's the row, Renie? Gee! it's a swell joint round here for a fellow with nerves! What's the row, kid?"
Mr. Isadore Shongut made a cigarette and puffed it, curled himself in a deep-seated chair, with his head low and his legs flung high. His sister lay on the divan, with her tearful profile buried, basso-rilievo, against a green velours cushion, her arms limp and dangling in exhaustion.
"What's the row, Renie?"
"N-nothing."
"Aw, come out with it—what's the row? What you sitting there for, ma, like your luck had turned on you?"
"Ask—ask your sister, Izzy; she can tell you."