I was seated between the madam and Julia. The dinner was a marvel⁠—fried chicken, hot biscuits, green vegetables. Beer was served, but I did not like it and the maid got me milk. The madam and Julia were the only ones that ate heartily. The others picked at their food, yawned, and looked at each other with low-lidded, feline calculating glances, seldom speaking. They looked and acted tired, worn, old, frustrated, disappointed. A big dark woman opposite me got a bottle from the sideboard and poured herself a drink of something.

“Now, my dear, be careful,” said the madam.

“Why didn’t you say that a year ago, Miss Kate?”

She took a piece of chicken in her fingers and went into a room across the hall where she played “Annie Rooney” on the piano and sang with her mouth full of food. Two others got up and went out. A blond girl pushed her chair back, lighted a cigarette, and began doing her fingernails. The maid came and whispered to another, who jumped up quickly and disappeared.