tions in corners. There was an argument in the hallway between the landlord and two couples, who wished to share one room without paying him more than the regulation three dollars required of one couple. Finally, Alva suggested that they leave. Emma Lou had drifted off into a state of semi-consciousness and was too near asleep or drunk to distinguish people or voices. All she knew was that she was being led out of that dreadful place, that the perturbing “pilgrimage to the proletariat’s parlor social,” as Truman had called it, was ended, and that she was in a taxicab, cuddled up in Alva’s arms.
Emma Lou awoke with a headache. Some one was knocking at her door, but when she first awakened it had seemed as if the knocking was inside of her head. She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples, and tried to become more conscious. The knock persisted and she finally realized that it was at her door rather than in her head. She called out, “Who is it?”
“It’s me.” Emma Lou was not far enough out of the fog to recognize who “me” was. It didn’t seem important anyway, so without any more thought or action, she allowed herself to doze off again. Whoever was on the outside of the door banged the louder, and finally Emma Lou distinguished the voice
