The litter of Sunday-night supper, awaiting its transfer to the dining-room table, lay spread in the faithful geometry of the cold, hebdomadal repast.  A platter of ruddy sliced tongue; one of noonday remnants of cold chicken; ovals of liverwurst; a mound of potato salad crisscrossed with strips of pimento; a china basket of the stuffed dates, all kissed with sugar; half of an enormously thick cheese cake; two uncovered apple pies; a stack of delicious raisin-stuffed curlicues, known as "schneken," pickles with a fern of dill across them (Ada’s touch, the dill); a dish of stuffed eggs with a toothpick stuck in each half (also Ada’s touch, the toothpicks).

She moved rather pussily, he thought, sometimes her fair cheeks quivering slightly to the vibration of her walk, as if they had jelled.  And, too, there was something rather snug and plump in the way her little hands with the eight dimples moved about things, laying the slabs of Swiss cheese, unstacking cups.

“No, only seven cups, Ada.  Nicky—­ain’t going to be home to supper.”

“Oh,” she said, “excuse me!  I—­I—­thought—­silly—­” and looked up at him to deny that it mattered.

“Isn’t that what you said this morning, Nicky?” Poor Sara, she almost failed herself then because her voice ended in quite a dry click in her throat.

He stood watching the resumed unstacking of the cups, each with its crisp little grate against its neighbor.

“One,” said Ada, “two-three-four-five-six—­seven!”

He looked very long and lean and his darkly nervous self, except that he dilly-dallied on his heels like a much-too-tall boy not wanting to look foolish.

“If Miss Ada will provide another cup and saucer, I think I’ll stay home.”

“As you will,” said Sara, disappearing into the dining room with the mound of salad and the basket of sugar-kissed dates.

She put them down rather hastily when she got there, because, sillily enough, she thought, for the merest instant, she was going to faint.

* * * * *

The week that Judge Turkletaub tried his first case in Court of General Sessions—­a murder case, toward which his criminal-law predilection seemed so inevitably to lead him, his third child, a little daughter with lovely creamy skin against slightly too curly hair, was lying, just two days old, in a blue-and-white nursery with an absurd border of blue ducks waddling across the wallpaper.

Ada, therefore, was not present at this inaugural occasion of his first trial.  But each of the two weeks of its duration, in a first-row bench of the privileged, so that her gaze was almost on a dotted line with her son’s, sat Sara Turkletaub, her hands crossed over her waistline, her bosom filling and waning and the little jet folderols on her bonnet blinking.  Tears had their way with her, prideful, joyful at her son’s new estate, sometimes bitterly salt at the life in the naked his eyes must look upon.