It is a block that is satisfied with itself; as different from
the Zapp district, where landladies in gingham run out to squabble
with berry-venders, as the Zapp district is from the Ghetto.
Mrs. Arty Ferrard's house is a poor relation to most of the
residences there. The black areaway rail is broken, and the
basement-door grill is rusty. But at the windows are
red-and-white-figured chintz curtains, with a $2.98 bisque
figurine of an unclothed lady between them; the door is of
spotless white, with a bell-pull of polished brass.
Mr. Wrenn yanked this bell-pull with an urbane briskness which,
he hoped, would conceal his nervousness and delight in dining
out. For he was one of the lonely men in New York. He had
dined out four times in eight years.
The woman of thirty-five or thirty-eight who opened the door to
him was very fat, two-thirds as fat as Mrs. Zapp, but she had
young eyes. Her mouth was small, arched, and quivering in a grin.
"This is Mr. Wrenn, isn't it?" she gurgled, and leaned against
the doorpost, merry, apparently indolent.
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