catching him unawares. That
very morning as he had stood, in his sumptuous bachelor's apartment,
strumming on one of the windows that overlooked an expensive tree and
lake vista of Central Park, he had wanted very suddenly and very badly
to feel those fingers in his and to kiss down on them. He liked their
taper and the rosy pointedness, those fingers, and the dry, neat way
they had of slipping in between the threads.

On this, one of a hundred such typical evenings in the Bon Ton lobby,
Mr. Latz, sighing out a satisfaction of his inner man, sat himself down
on a red velvet chair opposite Mrs. Samstag. His knees wide-spread,
taxed his knife-pressed gray trousers to their very last capacity, but
he sat back in none the less evident comfort, building his fingers up
into a little chapel.

"Well, how's Mr. Latz this evening?" asked Mrs. Samstag, her smile
encompassing the question.

"If I was any better I couldn't stand it"--relishing her smile and his
reply.

The Bon Ton had just dined, too well, from fruit-flip _a la_ Bon Ton,
mulligatawny soup, _filet_ of sole, _saute_, choice of, or both,
Poulette _emince_ and spring lamb _grignon_ and on through to fresh
strawberry ice-cream in fluted paper boxes, _petit fours_ and
_demi-tasse_. Groups of carefully corseted women stood now beside the
invitational plush divans and peacock chairs, paying twenty minutes
after-dinner standing penance. Men with Wall Street eyes and blood
pressure, slid surreptitious celluloid toothpicks, and gathered around
the cigar stand. Orchestra music flickered. Young girls, the traditions
of demure sixteen hanging by one inch shoulder-straps and who could not
walk across a hardwood floor without sliding the last three steps,
teetered in bare arm-in-arm groups, swapping persiflage with pimply,
patent-leather haired young men who were full of nervous excitement and
eager to excel in return badinage.

Bell hops scurried with folding tables. Bridge games formed.

The theater group got off, so to speak. Showy women and show-off men.
Mrs. Gronauer, in a full length mink coat that enveloped her like a
squaw, a titillation of diamond aigrettes in her Titianed hair and an
aftermath of scent as tangible as the trail of a wounded shark, emerged
from the elevator with her son and daughter-in-law.

"Foi!" said Mr. Latz, by way of--somewhat unduly perhaps--expressing his
own kind of cognizance of the scented trail.

"_Fleur de printemps_," said Mrs. Samst