"I done my part. I've tried as much as you to make myself fit in out here. I—I just ain't your kind, Mrs. Loeb. Yours and—Etta's. I—I can't be saving and economical when I see there's plenty to spend. I—I was raised with my brother down in Shefsky's theater, where nobody cares about monogramed guest towels and about getting up before noon if they don't want to. The evenings here kill me! Kill me! I hate pinochle! I gotta have life, Mrs. Loeb. I hate Kaffee Klatsches with a lot of—I—I tell you I got different blood in my veins, Mrs. Loeb, I—"
"No, no, Sadie Mosher Loeb, that kind of talk don't go. You got just the same shabbos like us. Saturday is your—"
"Yes, yes, I'm in the right church, all right, Mrs. Loeb, but I'm in the wrong pew. Mrs. Loeb, please can't you understand I'm in the wrong pew!"
And all her carefully confined curls, springing their pins, she fell forward a shivering mass.
In that surcharged moment and brisky exuding a wintry out-of-doors, Mr. Herman Loeb entered and stood for a moment in the open doorway, in the act of removing his greatcoat.
"Herman, my son! Oh, my son!"
"What's wrong, ma? Sadie!"
"It's come, Herman, like I always predicted to Etta it would. Your wife, my poor boy, she wants to leave you. This should happen to a Loeb yet—a separation in the family! My poor boy! My poor boy!"
"Why, ma, what—what's Sadie been telling you?"
At that Mrs. Herman Loeb raised her streaming face, her eyes all rid of their roguery and stretched in despair.