"For my part twenty years longer," she murmured, as she grasped Sol's hand.
"At a time like this, Mrs. Sammet," Sol rejoined, "it don't make no difference to me if a man is ever so much a competitor; what I claim is, let a sleeping dawg alone."
Mrs. Sammet indorsed the sentiment with another smile, and Sol with his retinue passed on into the back parlour for the purpose of inspecting the presents. In the meantime other guests had preceded them, and among them was a man whose bearing and raiment proclaimed the creature of fashion. Not only were his trousers of the latest narrow design, but they were of sufficient modish brevity half to conceal and half to reveal a pair of gossamer silk socks, which in their turn were incased by patent-leather, low-cut shoes. The latter exhibited the square knobbiness that only fashion artists can impart to the footgear of their models, while the broad laces that held them by the insecure hold of two eyelets were knotted in a bow that might have been appended to the collar of Mr. Paderewski himself.
"Ain't this Mr. Gurin?" Sol Klinger asked, and the creature of fashion nodded.
"You're a friend of the Kahlo, ain't it?" Klinger commented, employing the vernacular equivalent for the English word "bride."
"In a way," Gurin said evasively; "aber the Khosan I don't know at all."
Thus did Gurin imply that he was not acquainted with the future bridegroom, and Klinger volunteered the information that Asimof ran a dry-goods store in Dotyville, Pennsylvania.
"I sold him goods for years," he added, "and I guess I would continue to do so, even if that Ganef Sammet would make twenty engagement parties for 'em. Did you see the samovar I gave 'em?"
He pointed proudly to a silver-plated object, and Gurin glanced at it scornfully.
"Potash & Perlmutter gives 'em solid silver," he commented—"a wide dish."