s to a mirrored corner, a lackey drew out
their chairs, a pantry boy placed crisp rolls and small pats of sweet
butter beside their plates and filled their tumblers with water from a
crystal bottle, a waiter bent almost double wrote their order on a
silver-mounted pad, and music faint as the symphony of the spheres came
to them from a small gold balcony.

Miss Gertrude removed her gloves thoughtfully.

"That is what I call living," she repeated. She leaned forward, her
elbows on the table, and the little bunch of violets at her belt worked
out and fell to the floor. An attendant sprang to recover them.

"Let 'em go," said Barker. He drew a heavy-headed rose from the
embankment between them and wiped its wet stem. "Here's a posy that's
got them beat right."

She took it and pinned it at her throat. "Thanks," she said, glancing
about her with glowing, interested eyes.

"This place makes Runey's lunch-room look like a two-weeks-old
manicure."

"I told you I was goin' to show you the time of your life, didn't I? Any
goil that goes out with me ain't with a piker."

"Gee!" said Gertrude; "if Ethyl could only see me now!"

She sipped her water, and the ice tinkled against the frail sides of the
tumbler. A waiter swung a silver dome off a platter and served them a
steaming and unpronounceable delicacy; a woman sang from the small gold
balcony--life, wine, and jewels sparkled alike.

A page with converging lines of gilt balls down the front of his uniform
passed picture post-cards, showing the cafe, from table to table.
Gertrude asked for a lead-pencil and wrote one to a cousin in Montana,
and Mr. Barker signed his name beneath hers.

They dallied with pink ices and French pastries, and he loudly requested
the best cigar in the place.

"It's all in knowin' how to live," he explained. "I've been all over the
woild, and there ain't much I don't know or ain't seen; but you gotta
know the right way to go about things."

"Anybody could tell by looking at you that you are a man of the world,"
said Miss Gertrude.

It was eleven o'clock when they entered the car for the homeward spin.
The cool air blew color and verve into her face; and her hair,
responding to the night damp, curled in little grape-vine tendrils round
her face.

"You're some swell little goil," remarked Mr. Barker, a cigar hung idle
from one corner of his mouth.

"And you are some driver!" she retorted. "You run a car like a real
chauffeur."

"I wo