"Say, look at the third one from this end with the black curls all bobbing. I'm for her!"
"Where?"
"Gone now!"
Mr. Kahn leaned across his singing glass, his eye quickened into a wink.
"Old man, you can pull that woman-hater stuff on the home folks, but it takes your brother-in-law to lead you to the live ones. Eh?"
"You dry up," said Mr. Loeb, peering between the halves of a sandwich.
On a glass runway built over the heads of the assembled, a crystal aisle for satin feet, the row of soubrettes suddenly appeared, peering over the crystal rail, singing down upon the sea of marcelled, bald, and dead heads. Men, sheepish of their smiles but with the small heels overhead clanging like castanets into their spirits, dared to glance up.
"Gad, Herman! What'll they think up next? Whatta you know about that—all those little devils dancing right over our heads!"
"There she is!"
"Who?"