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promised.
    ‘Gawdlemighty!’ Mrs. Feeley shouted. ‘It’s three o’clock in the mornin’—an’ that ain’t a waltz! Them twins will be here in four hours!’
    ‘What twins?’ Darleen asked eyeing the ladies closely for signs of approaching parturition.
    ‘Aw, we led with our chins!’ Mrs. Feeley explained wearily. ‘We was a pushover for a coupla twins that belongs to a friend. We gotta do somethin’ to win the stinkin’ war! An’ she can keep on makin’ planes if we take the varmints off her hands in the daytime. Boys! Six months old; an’ we gotta feed ’em, an’ diaper ’em…an’ whatnot.’ Mrs. Feeley was depressed at the prospect.
    ‘Well, I gotta go and let you ladies get some rest! I’m proud of knowing someone like you ladies! And the lovely eats, and the coffee! And all that beautiful music!’ Darleen had not read about the debs for nothing.
    ‘You live near here, or ride a bicycle?’ Mrs. Feeley asked.
    ‘I’ve never saw anyone as funny as you, Mrs. Feeley!’ Darleen giggled. ‘Just down Market a piece at the Fleet Rooms is where I live. I’ll be okay!’
    ‘Well, you come back when you can stay longer,’ Mrs. Feeley urged warmly. ‘Walk on the outside o’ the sidewalk, near the gutter…an’ stay away from them dark alleys!’ she warned.
    The three ladies walked back into the house and went to bed, with Mrs. Feeley still muttering:
    ‘She better stay near the curb! With her heels as round as they is!’
     

Chapter 3
     
    T HE WAKING HOUR at the Ark was a trifle grim, due in some degree to the feather-edge the ladies felt from the previous night’s frolic and partly due to a feeling of impending disaster. Every time a car even sounded as if it was going to stop, Mrs. Feeley and her friends looked up nervously from their pick-me-up. Miss Tinkham had long ago abandoned the idea that coffee was something people drank the morning after. Her association with Mrs. Feeley and Mrs. Rasmussen had made her into such a seasoned trooper that she could go to the icebox, get out a cold beer, remove the cap, and drink it down without ever opening her gritty eyes.
    ‘Didn’t drink an awful lot last night, but I sure got a gyro touch this A.M.’ Mrs. Feeley remarked. ‘It’s the idea o’ them twins—’cause we ain’t never done nothin’ like that before!’
    ‘I done enough of it in my time,’ Mrs. Rasmussen said, wiping the foam off her upper lip. ‘You an’ Mr. Feeley never had no kids, did you?’
    ‘Neither chick nor child! Mr. Feeley always said what never made you laugh would never make you cry.’ Mrs. Feeley had never cared one way or the other herself. She figgered the Lord could attend to his own business best.
    ‘Oh dear!’ Miss Tinkham choked on her last swallow of beer. ‘There they are now!’
    Lily was just coming up the steps, pushing a wide, canvas double-stroller in which reposed, side by side, two enormous apple-dumpling babies. They were fast asleep, their dimpled arms and little hands like starfish spread out to the breeze. Their eyelashes made lovely shadows on the rosy cheeks.
    Mrs. Rasmussen opened the door and helped Lily lift the carriage up the last step and into the house.
    No one said a word.
    Finally, Lily grinned weakly and said: ‘Here they are!’
    ‘Damn if they ain’t!’ Mrs. Feeley murmured, coming to life at last.
    ‘Rabindranath Tagore! You sang of the sleep that flits on babies’ eyes!’ Miss Tinkham twittered.
    Even Mrs. Rasmussen had to admit they were sure pretty.
    ‘Which is Franklin and which is Winston?’ Miss Tinkham inquired.
    ‘They got ’nitials on their clothes, but it’s hard to tell now on account o’ they just got on diapers—but it really don’t make no difference! They can’t understand what you say to ’em, nohow!’ Lily explained.
    ‘Now, by rights,’ Mrs. Feeley said, coming out of her daze, ‘this here feller oughta be Winston—ain’t nothin’ missin’ but the bow-tie an’