urin' her victims into anything more desperate than a
red-ink table d'hote dinner or a six-dollar orgie at a cabaret. And
somehow they all seem to wriggle out of the net within a week or so with
no worse casualties than a feverish yearnin' for next pay day and a wise
look in the eyes. I've watched some of them young sports from the bond
room have their little fling with Mirabelle and not one of 'em has come
out a human wreck.

Maybe they discover that Mirabelle has turned thirty. I'll admit she
don't look it, 'specially under the pink-shaded counter light when she's
had a henna treatment lately and been careful to spread the make-up
artistic. The jet ear danglers helps some, too. Then there are them
misbehavin' eyes. Also when it comes to light and frivolous chat
Mirabelle is right there with the zippy patter. Oh my, yes! Try shootin'
anything fresh across when she's wrappin' a pound of mixed chocolates
and you'll get a quick one back from Mirabelle. Probably a quizzin',
twisty smile, too that sends you off kiddin' yourself that you're quite
a gay bird when you really cut loose, and where's the harm once in a
while? You know the kind.

But to think that Vincent should be fallin' for Mirabelle. Why, he sits
there all day behind the gate in plain sight of a battery of twenty lady
typists, some of 'em as kittenish young things as ever blew a week's
salary into a permanent wave and I've never even seen him so much as
roll an eye at one. Besides, he's as perfect a specimen of a Mommer's
boy as you could find between here and the Battery. Not that he's a male
ingenue. He's just a nice boy, Vincent, always neat and polite and ready
to admit that he has the best little mother in the world. I don't blame
him for thinkin' so either, for I've seen her a couple of times and if
I'm any judge she fits the description. She's a widow, you know, and she
and Vincent are strugglin' along on the life insurance until they make
Vincent general manager or vice-president or something.

So, as I was telling you, it gives me more or less of a jolt to see
Vincent flutterin' around Mirabelle. There's no mistakin' the motions,
either. He's draped himself careless over the end of the counter and
them big innocent blue eyes of his are fairly glued on Mirabelle, while
a simple smile comes and goes, dependin' on whether she's lookin' his
way or not. Just as I stops to gawp at the proceedin's he seems to be
askin' her something, real eager and earnest