Samstag. His knees wide-spread,
taxed his knife-pressed gray trousers to their very last capacity, but
he sat back in none the less evident comfort, building his fingers up
into a little chapel.
"Well, how's Mr. Latz this evening?" asked Mrs. Samstag, her smile
encompassing the question.
"If I was any better I couldn't stand it"--relishing her smile and his
reply.
The Bon Ton had just dined, too well, from fruit-flip _a la_ Bon Ton,
mulligatawny soup, _filet_ of sole, _saute_, choice of, or both,
Poulette _emince_ and spring lamb _grignon_ and on through to fresh
strawberry ice-cream in fluted paper boxes, _petit fours_ and
_demi-tasse_. Groups of carefully corseted women stood now beside the
invitational plush divans and peacock chairs, paying twenty minutes
after-dinner standing penance. Men with Wall Street eyes and blood
pressure, slid surreptitious celluloid toothpicks, and gathered around
the cigar stand. Orchestra music flickered. Young girls, the traditions
of demure sixteen hanging by one inch shoulder-straps and who could not
walk across a hardwood floor without sliding the last three steps,
teetered in bare arm-in-arm groups, swapping persiflage with pimply,
patent-leather haired young men who were full of nervous excitement and
eager to excel in return badinage.
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