Mr. Arnheim edged with her and they moved on their way toward the
dining-room.
Mrs. Blondheim from her point of vantage--the wicker rocker--leaned
toward her sister-in-law.
"Look, Hanna! that's Louie Epstein, of the Epstein & Son Millinery
Company, with Bella. He's a grand boy. I meet his mother at Doctor
Bergenthal's lecture every Saturday morning. Epstein & Son have got a
grand business, and Bella could do a whole lot worse."
"Well, I wish her luck," said Mrs. Blondheim's sister-in-law.
"I 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?" she asked.
"As long as you," he replied, not taking his eyes from her face.
"Honest?"
"Sure. I don't have to go in to New York for a week or ten days yet. My
season ain't on yet."
She leaned her head against the back of the divan. "All nice things must
end," she said, with the 'cello note in her voice.
"Oh, I don't know!" he replied, with what might have been triple
significance.
They finally walked toward the elevator, loath to part for the interim
of dressing.
That evening they strolled together on the beach until the last lights
of the hotel were blinking out. Then they stole into the semi-dark lobby
like thieves--but soft-voiced, joyous thieves. A few straggling
couples like themselves came in with the same sheepish but bright-eyed
hesitancy. At the elevator Miss Blondheim and Mr. Epstein were lingering
over good-nights.
The quartette rode up to their respective floors together--the girls
regarding each other with shy, happy eyes; the men covering up their
self-consciousness with sallies.
"Ain't you ashamed to keep such late hours, Miss Blondheim?" said Mr.
Arnheim.
"I don't see no early-to-bed-early-to-rise medals on none of us," she
said, diffidently.
"These thummer rethorts sure ain't no plathe for a minither's thon,"
said Mr. Epstein.
Laughter.
"Remember, Mr. Arnheim, whoever's up first wait in the leather chair
opposite the elevator."
"Sure thing, Miss Sternberger."
Her last glance, full of significance, was for Mr. Arnheim. The floor
above he also left the elevator, the smile still on his lips.
Left alone, Mr. Epstein turned to Miss Blondheim.
"Good night, dearie," he whispered. "Thweet dreamth."
"Good night, Louie," she replied. "Same to you."
Mr. Arnheim awoke to a scudding rain; his ocean-ward window-sill
dripping and a great patch of carpet beneath the window dark and soggy.
Downstairs the lobby buzzed with restrained energies; a few venturesome
ones in oils and turned-up collars paced the veranda without.
Mr. Arnheim, in his invariable soft collar and shadow-checked suit,
skirted the edge of the crowd in matinal ill humor and deposited his
room key at the desk. The clerk gave him in return a folded newspaper
and his morning mail.
Mr. Arnheim's morning aspect was undeniable. He suggested too generous
use of soap and bay rum, and his eyes had not lost the swollen heaviness
that comes with too much or too little sleep. He yawned and seated
himself in the heavy leather chair opposite the elevator.
His first letter was unstamped and addressed to him on hotel stationery;
the handwriting was an unfamiliar backhand and the inclosure brief:
DEAR MR. ARNHEIM: I am very sorry we could not keep our date, but I
got a message and I got to go in on the 7:10 train. Hope to see you
when I come back.
Sincerely, MYRA STERNBERGER.
Mr. Arnheim replaced the letter slowly in the envelope. There were two
remaining--a communication from a cloak-manufacturing firm and a check
from a banking-house. He read them and placed them in his inside coat
pocket. Then he settled the back of his neck against the rim of the
chair, crossed one leg over the other, rattled his newspaper open, and
turned to the stock-market reports.
One week later Mr. Simon Arnheim, a red portfolio under one arm, walked
into the mahogany, green-carpeted, soft-lighted establishment of an
importing house on Fifth Avenue.
Mrs. S.S. Schlimberg, senior member, greeted him in her third-floor
office behind the fitting-rooms.
"Well, well! _Wie geht's_, Arnheim? I thought it was gettin' time for
you."
Mr. Arnheim shook hands and settled himself in a chair beside the desk.
"You know you can always depend upon me, madame, to look you up the
minnit I get back. Don't I always give you first choice?"
Mrs. Schlimberg weighed a crystal paper-weight up and down in her pudgy,
ringed hands. "None of your fancy prices for me this season, Arnheim.
There's too many good things lyin' loose. That's why I got my openin'
a month sooner. I got a designer came in special off her vacation with
some good things."
Mr. Arnheim winked. "Schlim, I got some models here to show you that you
can't beat. When you see 'em you'll pay any price."
"I can't pay your fancy prices no more. I paid you too much for that
plush fad last winter, and it never was a go."
Mr. Arnheim chuckled. "When you see a couple of the designs I brought
over this trip you'll be willin' to pay me twice as much as for the
hobble. Come on--own up, Schlim; you can't beat my styles. Why, you can
copy them for your import-room and make ninety per cent, on any one of
'em!"
"They won't pay the prices, I tell you. Some of my best customers have
gone over to other houses for the cheaper goods."
"You can't put over domestic stuff on your trade, Schlim. You might as
well admit it. You gotta sting your class of trade in order to have 'em
appreciate you."
"Now, just to show you that I know what I'm talking about, Arnheim, I
got the best lines of new models for this season I've had since I'm
in business--every one of them domestics too. I'm puttin' some
made-in-America models in the import-room to-day that will open your
eyes."
Mr. Arnheim laughed and opened his portfolio. "I'll show you these till
my trunks come up," he said.
"Just a minute, Arnheim. I want to show you some stuff--Miss
Sternberger!" Mrs. Schlimberg raised her voice slightly, "Miss
Sternberger!"
Almost immediately a svelte, black-gowned figure appeared in the
doorway; she wore her hair oval about her face, like a Mona Lisa, and
her hands were long and the dusky white of ivory.
"Mr. Arnheim, I want to introduce you to a designer we've got since you
went away. Mr. Arnheim--Miss Sternberger."
The whir of sewing-machines from the workrooms cut the silence.
"How do you do?" said Miss Sternberger.
"How do you do?" said Mr. Arnheim.
"Miss Sternberger is like you, Mr. Arnheim--she's always out after
novelties; and I will say for her she don't miss out! She put out a line
of uncut velvets last winter that was the best sellers we had."
Mr. Arnheim bowed. Mrs. Schlimberg turned to Miss Sternberger.
"Miss Sternberger, will you bring in some of those new models that are
going like hot cakes? Just on the forms will do."
"Certainly." She disappeared from the doorway.
Mrs. Schlimberg tapped her forefinger on the desk. "There's the finest
little designer we've ever had! I got her off a Philadelphia house, and
I 'ain't never regretted the money I'm payin' her. She's done more for
the house in eight months than Miss Isaacs did in ten years!"
Miss Sternberger returned; a stock-boy wheeled in the new models on
wooden figures while Mrs. Schlimberg and her new designer arranged them
for display. Mrs. Schlimberg turned to Mr. Arnheim.
"How's the wife and boys, Arnheim? I 'ain't seen 'em since you brought
'em all in to see the Labor Day parade from the store windows last fall.
Them's fine boys you got there, Arnheim!"
"Thanks," said Arnheim.
"Now, Arnheim, I'm here to ask you if you can beat these. Look at that
there peach-bloom Piquette--look! Can you beat it? That there's the new
butterfly skirt--just one year ahead of anything that's being shown this
season." Mrs. Schlimberg turned to a second model. "Look at this here
ratine cutaway. If the Phoebe Snow ain't the talk of New York
before next week, then I don't know my own name. Ain't it so, Miss
Sternberger?"
Miss Sternberger ran her smooth hand over the lace shoulder of the gown.
"This is a great seller," she replied, smiling at Mr. Arnheim. "Lillian
Russell is going to wear it in the second act of her new play when she
opens to-morrow night."
"I guess we're slow in here," chuckled Mrs. Schlimberg, nudging Mr.
Arnheim with the point of her elbow.
Miss Sternberger spread the square train of a flame-colored robe full
length on the green carpet and drew back a corner of the hem to display
the lacy avalanche beneath. Then she bowed slightly and turned toward
the door.
Mrs. Schlimberg laid a detaining hand on her sleeve. "Just a minute,
Miss Sternberger. Mr. Arnheim's brought in some models he wants us to
look at."