"Well, Abe," Morris said, after the first greetings had passed between them that afternoon, "I'm glad to see you back in the store."
"You ain't half so glad to see me back, Mawruss, as I am that I should be back," Abe replied. "Not that the trip ain't paid us, Mawruss, because I got a trunkful of samples on the way up here which I assure you is a work of art."
"Sure, I know!" Morris commented with just a tinge of bitterness in his tones; "Paris is the place for styles. Us poor suckers over here don't know a thing about designing."
"Well, Mawruss, I'll tell you," Abe went on: "you are a first-class, A number one designer, I got to admit, and there ain't nobody that I consider is better as you in the whole garment trade; but"—here he paused to unfasten his suitcase—"but, Mawruss," he continued, "I got here just one sample style which I brought it with me, Mawruss, and I think, Mawruss, you would got to agree with me, such models we don't turn out on this side."
Here he opened the suitcase, and carefully taking out the dress of the Café de la Paix he spread it on a sample table.
"What d'ye think of that, Mawruss?" he asked.
Morris made no answer. He was gazing at the garment with bulging eyes, and beads of perspiration ran down his forehead.
"Abe!" he gasped at length, "where did you get that garment from?"
Before Abe could answer, the elevator door opened and a young lady stepped out. It was now Abe's turn to gasp, for the visitor was no other than the tanned and ruddy young person from the Café de la Paix.