"The little one in the boy's black-satin suit, with the black curls bobbing!"
"Watch out, Herm! You'll die of crick in the neck."
"I don't see any blinkers on you!"
"Hey, old man! Your mouth's open."
"I know. I opened it," said Mr. Loeb, his head back and eyes that were suddenly bold staring up at the twinkling aisle.
At a table adjoining, a man reached up, flecking one of the tiny black-satin feet with a whirl of his napkin.
Then Mr. Herman Loeb, of St. Louis, committed an act of spontaneous combustion. When came the turn of the black satin and the bobbing curls to bend over the rail directly above him, he flung wide his arms, overturning a wine bottle.
"Jump!" he cried.
Beneath the short, black curls a mouth shaped like a bud reluctant to open, blew him a kiss. Then came a cue of music like an avalanche, and quicker than Harlequin's wink the aisle was clean.
"Gad!" said Mr. Loeb, his strong profile thrust forward and a light on it.