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."
SOB SISTER
Physics can answer whence goes the candle-flame when it vanishes into blackness and what becomes of sound when the great maw of silence digests it. But what science can know the destiny of the pins and pins and pins, and what is the oblivion which swallows that great army of street-walking women whose cheeks are too pink and who dwell outside the barbed-wire fence of respectability?