dry groceries. But now the maidless four-room apartment took on, in spite of its cumbersome furnishings, a certain air of impermanence.

“Ray, honey, I haven’t a scrap in the house. I didn’t get home until almost six. Those darned old street cars. I hate ‘em. Do you mind going over Jo Bauer’s to eat? I won’t go, because Myrtle served a regular spread at four. I couldn’t eat a thing. D’you mind?”

“Why, no.” He would get into his coat again and go out into the bleak November wind-swept street to Bauer’s restaurant.

Cora was always home when Raymond got there at six. She prided herself on this. She would say, primly, to her friends, “I make a point of being there when Ray gets home. Even if I have to cut a round of bridge. If a woman can’t