Quick color flowed down her open throat and into her shirtwaist. It was as if the platitude merged with the very corpuscles of a blush that sank down into thirsty soil.
"You boys," she said, "come out here and throw in a jolly with every bill of goods. I'll take a good fat discount instead."
"Fact. Never seen you look better. When you got out on the floor in that stamp-your-foot kind of dance with old man Shulof, your hand on your hip and your head jerking it up, there wasn't a girl on the floor, your own daughter included, could touch you, and I'm giving it to you straight."
"That old thing! It's a Russian folk-dance my mother taught me the first year we were in this country. I was three years old then, and, when she got just crazy with homesickness, we used to dance it to each other evenings on the kitchen floor."
"Say, have you heard the news?"
"No."
"Guess."
"Can't."
"Hammerstein is bringing over the crowned heads of Europe for vaudeville."
Mrs. Coblenz moved back a step, her mouth falling open.