There are men like that, to whom life is not only a theosophy of one
God, but of one women who is sufficient thereof. When Samuel Lipkind
greeted Clara Bloom there was just that in his ardently
appraising glance.
"Didn't mean to keep you waiting, Clara--a last-minute customer. _You_
know."
"I've been counting red heads and wishing the Subway was pulled by white
horses."
"Say, Clara, but you look a picture! Believe me, Bettina, that is some
lid!"
Miss Bloom tucked up a rear strand of curl, turning her head to extreme
profile for his more complete approval.
"Is it an elegant trifle, Sam? I ask you is it an elegant trifle?"
"Clara, it's--immense! The best yet! What did it set you back?"
"Don't ask me! I'm afraid just saying it would give your mother
heart-failure by mental telepathy."
He linked her arm. "Whatever you paid, it's worth the money. It sets you
off like a gipsy queen."
"None of that, Sam! Mush is fattening."
"Mush nothing! It's the truth."
"Hurry. Schulem's got a new rule--no reserving the guest-table."
They let themselves be swept into the great surge of the underground
river with all of the rather thick-skinned unsensitiveness to
shoulder-to-shoulder contact which the Subway engenders.
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