They entered an institutional, sanitary, and legislation-smelling box of foyer and up three flights of fire-proof stairs. At each landing were four fire-proof doors, lettered. The Cobbs' door, "H," stood open, an epicene medley of voices and laughter floating down the long neck of hallway on the syncopated whine of a ukulele.
There was an immediate parting of ways, Mr. Sensenbrenner hanging his cap on an already well-filled rack of pegs and making straight for the sound of revelry by night.
The girls made foray into a little side pocket of bedroom for the changing of shoes, whitening of noses, and various curlicue preambles.
"Stella, your hair looks swell!"
"Ma plaited it up last night with sugar-water."
"Here, just this speck on your lips, just a little to match your cheeks!—See—all the girls use it."
"Ugh—no—"
"There, just a stroke. Fine! Say, wasn't Arch killing to-night when he called my cheeks naturally curly?"
"You look grand, Cora. Sure you don't want your pink beads?"
"I'll throw 'em down and step on 'em if you take 'em off."