"They want the vote, they don't want me." And she turned forlornly back to the work of moving up to her new apartment.
The first of May was drawing near, and she saw signs of restlessness, as thousands of New Yorkers prepared to change their quarters.

Moving, always moving.

Did they never stop in one place and make it a home?
The big building in which Ethel lived took on an impersonal air, as though saying, "What do I care?
I'm all concrete, with good hard steel inside of that." What a queer place for people's homes! People moving in and out! Curiously she probed into its life.

She had long ago made friends with the wife of the superintendent, and through her Ethel collected bits about these many families so close together and yet so apart; all troubles kept strictly out of sight, with the freight elevator for funerals, cool looks and never a word of greeting.

"Keep off," writ clear on every face.
"It isn't real, this living! It can't last!" she exclaimed to herself.
"They'll have to work out something better than this--something, oh, much homier!" She thought of the old frame house in Ohio.