"You let that kid alone," said Miss Sylvette de Long, in a tone not part of her rôle. "When the traffic policeman sticks up his mitt it's time to halt, see?" Lines not before discernible in Miss De Long's face had long since begun to creep out, smoky shadows beneath her eyes and a sunburst of fine lines showing through the powder like stencil designs.
"Come on, Herm. It's getting late, and if we want to be down on Cedar—"
"You think I'm kidding this little black-eyed chum of yours, don't you,
Blondey?"
"Sure not! You want 'er to grace the head of your table and wear the family heirlooms!"
"Well, Sam, you're my brother-in-law—married to my own sister and living under the same roof with me—am I a habitual lady-fusser, or do they call me Hermie the Hermit at home?"
"Never knew him to talk ten straight words to a skirt before, girls," said Mr. Kahn through a yawn; "and if you don't believe it, go out and ask Louis Slupsky, who used to play chinies with him."
"Say, you," said Miss De Long, edging slightly, "you're about as funny as a machine-gun, you are! If you got a private life, why ain't you back in St. Louis a night like this, showing her and the kids a good time?"
She was frankly tired, her eyelids darkening.
"I wish to Heaven I was," said Mr. Kahn, suddenly. "Take it from me, girl, it was nothing but a business hang-over kept me. Come, Herm, if we—"
"You think I'm kidding little Jingle Bells, don't you?"