"I don't smoke, paw," said Marcus.
He went out, his arm linked in Birdie's. Their laughter drifted backward.
Mrs. Katzenstein resumed her chair in the warm glow of the logs—her full face, with the scallop of double chin, was suddenly old and lined; her husband drew up his curved-back rocker beside her.
"Mamma, you shouldn't take on so. Everything comes for the best."
"You can talk, papa! Now I had even told Mrs. Ginsburg for sure she should have one of those Ninety-sixth Street apartments."
"You women folks make me sick! You should be glad we got our health, mamma, and good men for our girls."
"I guess you're right, papa. He's a grand young man!"
"A good boy—ach, how tired I am!"
"Stretch out your feet, papa. It's warm by the fire."
The light flickered over their faces and sent long shadows wavering and dancing back of them.