way." He hadn't let Billy miss Mary on a single round of drinks. "After all," thought Hubert, "where would we all be if it wasn't for women like Mary Jackson?"
"Oh, dear," Mary wailed, "I wish George would come and take me home. He ought to remember that in my condition I should be in bed early."
Hubert offered to take her home. He reminded her that he had a Packard right outside, but Mary said she'd better wait for George, thanks just the same.
Hymie's wife, Theresa, sat on a chair in the foyer. It was a small foyer and it looked right into the living-room. She could see and be seen from there, but she could not be bumped into nor be addressed above the blare of the radio. Some people were of the opinion that she had chosen that chair for a reason.
Theresa was a creamy-skinned brunette who never spoke unless she had something unpleasant to say, and she had the unforgivable knack of always being right. She had a reputation for never feeling liquor, but actually she felt it as much as the others. With every drink she slid deeper into despondency. She thought of death and insanity in her drunken moments and so sat silent and afraid while her companions laughed and danced. Because her intoxication did not manifest itself in hilarity they thought her cold sober, and when they spoke to her they took her dreary remarks on death and destruction as further proofs of her sobriety.
Billy had begun to sing. He was a paint salesman and had all the Long Island territory. He made out pretty well, but his friends were convinced that he should have been an actor. His singing was great, and
