"Gad!" said Mr. Loeb, his strong profile thrust forward and a light on
it.
"That little one with the black curls? Say! You can put her on your
watch-fob and take her home."
"Wouldn't mind!" said Mr. Loeb.
"You and Moe Marx are like all the women-haters. You don't know it, but
you're walking in your sleep and the tenth-story window's open."
"We oughtn't to come up here in business clothes," said Mr. Loeb, eying
his cuff-edges.
A woman sang of love. A chorus, crowned and girdled in inflated toy
balloons, wreathed in and out among the tables.
"She's not in that crowd."
Men to whom life for the most part was grim enough vied for whose
cigarette end should prick the painted bubbles. A fusillade ensued;
explosions on the gold-powdered air--a battle _de luxe!_
Mr. Kahn threw back his head, yawned, and slid a watch from his
waistcoat pocket.
"W-ell, a little of this goes a long way. If we want to pull out of this
town day after to-morrow we've got to get down to Cedar Street early in
the morning on that sweater job lot. It's about time for us to be
getting across to the hotel."
"Wait!" said Mr. Loeb.
A jingling and a right merry cacophony of sound came fast upon the
bubble bombardment, and then, to a light runnel of song, the row of
twenty-four, harnessed in slotted sleigh-bells and with little-girl
flounced frocks to their very sophisticated pink-silk knees.
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