smell fried smelts. Let's go in to lunch."

Mrs. Blondheim stabbed her crochet needle into her spool. "I usually dip
my smelts in bread crumbs. Have you ever tried them that way, Hanna?"

"Julius don't eat smelts."

They moved toward the dining-room.

Late that afternoon Miss Sternberger and Mr. Arnheim returned from a
sail. Their faces were flushed and full of shy, sweet mystery.

"I can't show you the models the way I'd like to, dearie, but I got 'em
in colors just like the real thing."

"Oh, Simon, you're doin' a thing like this for me without me even askin'
you!"

His hold of her arm tightened. "I wouldn't show these here to my own
sister before the twenty-fifth of the month. Now you know how you stand
with me, little one."

"Oh," she cried, "I'm so excited! It's just like lookin' behind the
scenes in a theayter."

He left her and returned a few moments later with a flat, red-covered
portfolio. They sought out an unmolested spot and snuggled in a corner
of a plush divan in one of the deserted parlors. He drew back the cover
and their heads bent low.

At each turn of the pages she breathed her ecstasy and gave out shrills
and calls of admiration.

"Oh, Simon, ain't that pink one a beauty! Ain't that skirt the swellest
thing you ever seen!"

"That's the Piquette model, girlie. You and all New York will be buyin'
it in another month. Ain't it the selectest little thing ever?"

Her face was rapt. "It's the swellest thing I've ever seen!" she
declared.

He turned to another plate.

"Oh-h-h-h-h!" she cried.

"Ain't that a beauty! That there is going to be the biggest hit I've had
yet. Watch out for the Phoebe Snow! I've got the original model in my
trunks. That cutaway effect can't be beat."

"Oh-h-h-h-h!" she repeated.

They passed slowly over the gay-colored plates.

"There's that flame-colored one I'd like to see you in."

"Gee!" she said. "There's some class to that."

After a while the book was laid aside and they talked in low, serious
tones; occasionally his hand stroked hers.

The afternoon waned; the lobby thinned; the dowagers and their daughters
asked for room keys and disappeared for siestas and more mysterious
processes; children trailed off to rest; the hot land-breezes, dry and
listless, stirred the lace curtains of the parlor--but they remained on
the plush divan, rapt as might have been Paolo and Francesca in their
romance-imbued arbor.

"How long will you be down here?" sh