Screwballs, we’ve eaten together like this for the past twenty-odd years, and never once in all that time have you made as much as one unpredictable remark. Now, even though you refuse to acknowledge the fact, Screwballs, I’m leaving you for ever. I’m going to Philadelphia, to work in an hotel. And you know why I’m going. Screwballs, don’t you. Because I’m twenty-five, and you treat me as if I were five—I can’t order even a dozen loaves without getting your permission. Because you pay me less than you pay Madge. But worse, far worse than that Screwballs, because—we embarrass one another. If one of us were to say, ‘You’re looking tired’ or ‘That’s a bad cough you have’, the other would fall over backways with embarrassment.