“There!” He gave them a signal, and stood off grinning, his head on one side, contemplatively, as they crowded about the composition.
Above the idealized figure of the Well-dressed Man, flanked in servile admiration by the Sphinx and Primitive Man, an Angel of Victory, floating down, after the uncomfortable manner of angels of Victory, was triumphantly blowing on a trumpet sustained by one hand, while with the other she prepared to crown the Modern Man, not with a wreath but with an immaculate silk hat, which was held just over his brow. The face of the Well-dressed Man likewise expressed the serene flush that heroes must show at such monumental moments.
“Cracky!” said O’Leary, gazing in awe.
“Wimpfheimer will weep for joy,” said Flick, delighted.
Tootles gazed at Dangerfield as the pickets of the Grand Army used to come to startled salute at the sudden apparition of the Little Corporal.
“You must sign it, too,” he said, in a burst of fairness.
“It’ll be a riot,” said Flick, seeing visions of a golden shower. “We’ll work it up until we have the whole clothes-aristocracy fighting each other for it.”
“That’s a beginning,” said Dangerfield, who enjoyed the satire more than he dared show. “Beau Brummel can be about left center, examining him through a lorgnon, or better, indicating him to a belle in a powdered wig.”
“You do think there ought to be woman-interest?” said Tootles.
“Sure! Appeal to the women—get the women’s periodicals,” said Flick.