ABSTRACT
Geraldine was almost ready; it is impossible to be quite ready in the bosom of one’s family. She needn’t hurry, said Mysie inconsistently, and laid off her wrap for a few minutes’ grace. “I like this apartment; it suits you, Geraldine.” The square old-fashioned heavy-corniced rooms were restful. “You know the Bible says Judas died and went to his own place—such a tactful way of putting it—I guess we all do here and now. Gina was bound to arrive on Fifth Avenue, and I have to live down town; and you can’t escape from the West Side.” Geraldine reflected on the suggestion. She was sometimes surprised to find herself living on a scale which included a cook, a housemaid and a nurse. It happened gradually; after her novel established her reputation, her short stories began to sell, the money came in, and she spent it. “Grandmother lived in this part of town,” she said. “Father’s mother. We used to come over from Hoboken for Sunday dinner. Roast beef at two o’clock, and a coal-gas smell from those stingy black marble fireplaces. It was a brownstone house, of course. I always went into a coma on the stamped brown velvet sofa after dinner, with some deadly book. The Pansy Books. I liked Hoboken better.”
