"Good morning," replied Mrs. Blondheim, stabbing a bit of omelet with vindictive fork.
Mrs. Epstein looked after the pair with warming eyes. "She is a stylish dresser, ain't she?"
"I wish you'd see the white linen my Bella's got. It's got sixteen yards of Cluny lace in the waist alone—and such Cluny, too! I paid a dollar and a half a yard wholesale."
"Just look at this waist I'm wearin', Mrs. Blondheim. You wouldn't think
I paid three and a half for the lace, would you?"
"Oh yes; I can always tell good stuff when I see it, and I always say it pays best in the end," said Mrs. Blondheim, feeling the heavy lace edge of Mrs. Epstein's sleeve between discriminating thumb and forefinger.
Suddenly Mrs. Epstein's eyes widened; she rose to her feet, drawing a corner of the table-cloth awry. "If it ain't my Louie!"
Mr. Louis Epstein, a faithful replica of his mother, with close black hair that curled on his head like the nap of a Persian lamb, imprinted a large, moist kiss upon the maternal lips.
"Hello, maw! Didn't you expect me?"
"Not till the ten-o'clock train, Louie. How's papa?"
"He'th fine. I left him billing thom goods to Thpokane."