Bell hops scurried with folding tables. Bridge games formed.
The theater group got off, so to speak. Showy women and show-off men.
Mrs. Gronauer, in a full length mink coat that enveloped her like a
squaw, a titillation of diamond aigrettes in her Titianed hair and an
aftermath of scent as tangible as the trail of a wounded shark, emerged
from the elevator with her son and daughter-in-law.
"Foi!" said Mr. Latz, by way of--somewhat unduly perhaps--expressing his
own kind of cognizance of the scented trail.
"_Fleur de printemps_," said Mrs. Samstag in quick olfactory analysis.
"Eight ninety-eight an ounce." Her nose crawling up to what he thought
the cunning perfection of a sniff.
"Used to it from home--not? She is not. Believe me, I knew Max Gronauer
when he first started in the produce business in Jersey City and the
only perfume he had was seventeen cents a pound, not always fresh killed
at that. Cold storage _de printemps_."
"Max Gronauer died just two months after my husband," said Mrs. Samstag,
tucking away into her beaded hand-bag her _filet_ lace handkerchief,
itself guilty of a not inexpensive attar.
"_Thu-thu_," clucked Mr. Latz for want of a fitting retort.
"Heigh-ho! I always say we have so little in common, me and Mrs.
Gronauer.
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