"That little one with the black curls? Say! You can put her on your watch-fob and take her home."
"Wouldn't mind!" said Mr. Loeb.
"You and Moe Marx are like all the women-haters. You don't know it, but you're walking in your sleep and the tenth-story window's open."
"We oughtn't to come up here in business clothes," said Mr. Loeb, eying his cuff-edges.
A woman sang of love. A chorus, crowned and girdled in inflated toy balloons, wreathed in and out among the tables.
"She's not in that crowd."
Men to whom life for the most part was grim enough vied for whose cigarette end should prick the painted bubbles. A fusillade ensued; explosions on the gold-powdered air—a battle de luxe!
Mr. Kahn threw back his head, yawned, and slid a watch from his waistcoat pocket.
"W-ell, a little of this goes a long way. If we want to pull out of this town day after to-morrow we've got to get down to Cedar Street early in the morning on that sweater job lot. It's about time for us to be getting across to the hotel."
"Wait!" said Mr. Loeb.