ringing the bell. He had never had a key. As if he were a child they would not trust him with one. Nettie’s women friends were just leaving. In the air you smelled a mingling of perfume, and tea, and cakes, and powder. He sniffed it, sensitively.

“How do you do, Mr. Minick!” they said. “How are you! Well, you certainly look it. And how do you manage these gloomy days?”

He smiled genially, taking off his greatcoat and revealing the red sweater with the big white “C” on it. “I manage. I manage.” He puffed out his cheeks. “I’m busy moving.”

“Moving!” Nettie’s startled eyes flew to his, held them. “Moving, Father?”

“Old folks must make way for the young,”