A splay-mouthed youth, his face and neck sunburnt to a beefy red, tugged at her gold-colored scarf as she passed.
"Oh, you Myra!" he sang.
"Quit your kiddin', Izzy!" she parried back. "Who was that blonde I seen you with down at the beach this mornin'?"
A voluptuous brunette in a rose-pink dress and diamonds dragged her down to the arm of her rocker.
"I got a trade-last for you, Myra."
"For me?"
"Yes."
"Give it to me, Clara."
"No, I said a trade—and a dandy, too!"
"Who from—man?"