"Just a moment, please—there's a lady out here wants low-cuts, and I'm busy with a customer. Front, please—just this way, madam. I'll have some one to wait on you in a moment."
Mr. Ginsburg clapped his hands dry of dust, wriggled into his unlined alpaca coat, brushed his plush-like hair with his palms, and advanced to the front of the store. His voice was lubricated with the sweet-oil of willing servitude.
"What can I do for you, madam? Low-cuts for yourself?"
He straddled a stool and took the foot in the cup of his hand. Beside him on a similar stool that brought their heads parallel Miss Ruby smoothed her hand across her customer's instep.
"Ain't that effect great, Mr. Ginsburg, with that swell little rosette? I was just telling this young lady if I had her instep I'd never wear anything but our dancing-shoes."
"It certainly is swell," agreed Mr. Ginsburg, peering into the lining of the shoe he removed to read its size.
The day's tide quickened; the yellow benches, with ceiling fans purring over them, were filled with rows of trade who tamped the floor with shiny, untried soles, bent themselves double to feel of toe and instep, and walked the narrow strip of green felt as if on clay feet they feared would break.
Came noon and afternoon. Miss Cohn ascended and descended the ladder with the agility of a street vender's mechanical toy, shoes tucked under each arm, and a pencil at a violent angle in the nest of her hair.
"Have we got any more of them 543 flat heels, Mr. Ginsburg?"
"Yes, Miss Ruby—right there in back of you."