Emeline and Julia were quite at home in the shabby
overcrowded house in Eddy Street, and to-day walked in at the basement
door, under a flight of wooden stairs that led to the parlour floor, and
surprised the household at lunch in the dark, bay-windowed front room.
Mrs. Tarbury, a large, uncorseted woman, presided. Her boarders, girls
for the most part, were scattered down the long table. Luncheon was
properly over, but the girls were still gossiping over their tea. Flies
buzzed in the sunny window, and the rumpled tablecloth was covered with
crumbs. Mrs. Tarbury kissed Mrs. Page, and Julia settled down between
two affectionate chorus girls.
"You know you're getting to be the handsomest thing that ever lived,
Ju!" said one of these. Julia smiled without raising her eyes from the
knives and forks with which she was absently playing.
"She's got the blues to-day," said her mother. "Not a word out of her!"
"Is that right, Ju?" somebody asked solicitously.
"Just about as right as Mama ever gets it," the girl said, still with
her indifferent smile. Because her mother was shallow and violent, she
had learned to like a pose of silence, of absent-mindedness, and
because of the small yet sufficient income afforded by the rented rooms
and from alimony, Julia was removed from the necessity that drove these
other girls to the hard and constant work of the stage, and could afford
her favourite air of fastidious waiting.
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