There are men like that, to whom life is not only a theosophy of one God, but of one women who is sufficient thereof. When Samuel Lipkind greeted Clara Bloom there was just that in his ardently appraising glance.
"Didn't mean to keep you waiting, Clara—a last-minute customer. You know."
"I've been counting red heads and wishing the Subway was pulled by white horses."
"Say, Clara, but you look a picture! Believe me, Bettina, that is some lid!"
Miss Bloom tucked up a rear strand of curl, turning her head to extreme profile for his more complete approval.
"Is it an elegant trifle, Sam? I ask you is it an elegant trifle?"
"Clara, it's—immense! The best yet! What did it set you back?"
"Don't ask me! I'm afraid just saying it would give your mother heart-failure by mental telepathy."
He linked her arm. "Whatever you paid, it's worth the money. It sets you off like a gipsy queen."
"None of that, Sam! Mush is fattening."