“The salesman. I don’t know! What do you want to tell him?”
Etta pouted. In spite of the usual smile she had so carefully cultivated during the last seven years, her eyes were cold.
“It isn’t what I want to tell him. You know that. I’m not the one for whose sake we’re getting that limousine. But you can’t be driving around in that dingy sedan. You ought to have a real car. People expect it of you.”
Always that argument. The apartment people expected of him, her dresses people expected of him, his name people expected of him. Nothing for her. Everything for him. Oh, a good wife!
“You expect it of me, too, don’t you, Etta?”
“Well....”
“You all expect it of me? Your father expected an interest on his money: a nice home for you, nice clothes for you. He got it. My family.... Well, they’re well off now, they’ve no troubles. A nice home in the Bronx. Reba got her dowry, she got her lawyer.... Aren’t you, all of you, satisfied yet? What else do you want?”
“Manny, I don’t understand you.”
“No!”
“What is the matter with you to-day?”