He leaned across the table. "That ain't a bad linen model you're wearin'—it's domestic goods, too. Where'd you get it?"
"At Lipman's."
"I sold them a consignment last year; but, say, if you want to see real classy white goods you ought to see some ratine cutaways I'm bringing over. I've brought a model I'm goin' to call the Phoebe Snow. It's the niftiest thing for early fall you ever saw."
"Ratine?"
"You never heard of it? That's where I get my work in—it's the new lines, the novelty stuff, that gets the money."
"Are you goin' in the surf this morning, Mr. Arnheim?"
"I'm goin' where you go, little one." He dropped two lumps of sugar into her coffee-cup. "Sweets to the sweet," he said.
"Silly!" But she giggled under her breath.
They pushed back their chairs and strolled down the aisle between the tables. She smiled brightly to her right and left.
"Good morning, Mrs. Blondheim. Is it warm enough for you?"