Time had just sailed another knot into space, and
who cared?
At a center table a woman's slipper was already going the rounds. It
began to sag and wine to ooze through the brocade.
"Well, Hermie, here's a happy New Year to you!"
"And to you, Sam, and many of 'em!"
"To ma and Etta and grandma!"
"To Kahn, Loeb & Schulien!"
"To Kahn, Loeb & Schulien and that to this time next year we got the
Men's Clothing Annex."
They drank in solemn libation.
The curtains had parted again. A Pierrot, chalky white, whistled in
three registers, soprano, bass, and baser. A row of soubrettes rollicked
in and out again in a flash of bushy skirts.
"Say, look at the third one from this end with the black curls all
bobbing. I'm for her!"
"Where?"
"Gone now!"
Mr. Kahn leaned across his singing glass, his eye quickened into a wink.
"Old man, you can pull that woman-hater stuff on the home folks, but it
takes your brother-in-law to lead you to the live ones. Eh?"
"You dry up," said Mr. Loeb, peering between the halves of a sandwich.
On a glass runway built over the heads of the assembled, a crystal aisle
for satin feet, the row of soubrettes suddenly appeared, peering over
the crystal rail, singing down upon the sea of marcelled, bald, and dead
heads.
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