"And I will make for her a wedding, Mr. Zwiebel," Levy cried enthusiastically, "which there never was before. A bottle of tchampanyer wine to every guest."
"And now, Mr. Levy," Zwiebel said, "let us go downstairs and have a bottle tchampanyer wine to ourselves."
That evening Milton and Clara sat together in the front parlour of the Levy residence on One Hundred and Nineteenth Street. They had plighted their troth more than an hour before and ought to have been billing and cooing.
"No, Milton," Clara said as she caressed her fiancé's hand, "credit information shouldn't be entered on cards. It ought to be placed in an envelope and indexed on a card index after it's been filed. Then you can put the mercantile agency's report right in the envelope."
"Do you think we should get some of them loose-leaf ledgers?" he asked her as he pressed a kiss on her left hand.
"I think they're sloppy," she replied. "Give me a bound ledger every time."
"All right," Milton murmured. "Now, let's talk about something else."
"Yes," she cried enthusiastically, "let's talk about the fixtures. What d'ye say to some of those low racks and——"
"Oh, cut it out!" Milton said as he took a snugger reef in his embrace. "How about the music at the wedding?"
"Popper will fix that," she replied.