Miss Cohn flitted to the front of the store as rapidly as the span of her narrow skirt would permit, and Mr. Ginsburg dived deep into the depths of his wooden case. But in his nostrils, in the creases of his coat, and in the recesses of his heart was the strong breath of the Mayflower; and in the phantasmagoria of bonfire-colored hair and cream-colored skin, and the fragrance of his own emotions, he bent so dreamily over the packing-case that the blood rushed as if by capillary attraction to his temples; and when he staggered to an upright posture large black blotches were doing an elf dance before his eyes.
"Mr. Ginsburg! Oh, Mr. Ginsburg!"
"Yes, Miss Ruby."
From the highest rung of a ladder, parallel with the top row of a wall of shoe-boxes, Miss Cohn poised like a humming-bird.
"Say, have we got any more of them 4567 French heel, chiffon rosette?"
"Yes, Miss Ruby—right there under the 5678's."
"Sure enough. Never mind coming out; I can find 'em—yes, here they are."
From her height she smiled down at him, pushed her ladder leftward along its track, clapped a shoe-box under her arm, and hurried down, her shoe-buttoner jangling from a pink ribbon at her waist-line. Mr. Ginsburg delved deeper.
"Mr. Ginsburg!"
"Yes, Miss Ruby."