Lillian turned the knob of Apartment 3a. Third floor front. The door opened and she walked in. The Friedrich girls were already there. Lillian could hear them talking in the kitchen and the air was heavy with the odor of frying onions. That meant steak. Rose always fried onions to put over it. Lillian didn't like the flavor of onions but she hated to tell Rose that she didn't. There was a long hall off which lay the kitchen and one bedroom. That was Lillian's room. It was on a court. Never bright and not too airy. Facing the street were the living-room and another bedroom. Rose and Sylvia had the nicer bedroom. It was only fair. They did most of the housework, as they could leave later in the morning than she. Lillian looked in the kitchen as she passed. Rose was poking at the onions in the smoke-filled kitchen, and Sylvia was sitting on the table looking over the evening newspaper.
"'Lo," called Lillian. "How are all the little Friedrichs?" Her voice was full and mellowly husky. Her mode of speech was nearly always facetious. Earnest moments embarrassed her. When people told her of their troubles, it was only by an effort that she held back light words. She was not unfeeling, but serious conversation made her uncomfortable. It was like the subway crush. People were too close to her, too intimate, when they demanded grave attention and thoughtful replies.
In her room Lillian took off her cape and hat and changed her shoes. Her feet were tired. She sat on the bed and enjoyed her toes' new-found freedom. Her bed was a single bed. Metal with mahogany stain. A
