He leaned for another pin. "Stick around down in Seligman's. If I dust my hat with my handkerchief when I pass, I'm nailed for the evening. If I can wriggle I'll blow you to Churchey's for supper."
"I—"
"'Sh-h-h-h."
He retreated behind the mauve-colored swinging-door. The two remaining sibyls, hatted and coated to crane the neck of the passer-by, hurried arm-in-arm out into the spring evening. An errand girl, who had dropped her skirt and put up her hair so that the eye of the law might wink at her stigma of youth, hung the shimmering gowns away for another day's display. Gertie Dobriner patted her ringed fingers against her mouth to press back a yawn and trailed across the room, adjusting her hat before a full-length mirror. In the light from a single electric bulb her hair showed three colors—yellow gold, green gold, and, toward the roots, the dark gold of old bronze.
"You can go now, Gert."
"Yes, madam."
Miss Dobriner adjusted a spray of curls. Through the mirror she could observe the mauve-colored swinging-door.
"Did—did Du Gass order that fish-tail model, madam?"
Madam Moores dallied with her appointment-book. Through the mirror she could observe the mauve-colored swinging-door.
"Yes, in green."