finer. Maybe not so much, but every stitch, Mrs. Suss, made by
the same sisters in the same convent that made hers.... Towels! I tell
her it's a shame to expose them to the light, much less wipe on them.
Ain't it?... The goodness looks out from his face. And such a love-pair!
Lunatics, I call them. He can't keep his hands off. It ain't nice, I
tell him.... Me? Come close. I dyed the net myself. Ten cents' worth of
maroon color. Don't it warm your heart, Mrs. Suss? This morning, after
we got her in Lester's uncle Mark's big automobile, I says to her, I
says, 'Mamma, you sure it ain't too much.' Like her old self for a
minute, Mrs. Suss, she hit me on the arm. 'Go 'way,' she said, 'on my
grandchild's engagement-day anything should be too much? Here, waiter,
get these two ladies some salad. Good measure, too. Over there by the
window, Mrs. Suss. Help yourselves."

"Mamma, sh-h-h, the waiters know what to do."

Mrs. Coblenz turned back, the flush warm to her face.

"Say, for an old friend, I can be my own self."

"Can we break the receiving-line now, Lester honey, and go down with
everybody? The Sinsheimers and their crowd over there by themselves, we
ought to show we appreciate their coming."

Mr. Goldmark twisted high in his collar, cupping her small bare elbow in
his hand.

"That's what I say, lovey; let's break. Come, mother Coblenz, let's step
down on high society's corns."

"Lester!"

"You and Selene go down with the crowd, Lester. I want to take gramaw to
rest for a while before we go home. The manager says we can have room
fifty-six by the elevator for her to rest in."

"Get her some newspapers, ma, and I brought her a wreath down to keep
her quiet. It's wrapped in her shawl."

Her skirts delicately lifted, Miss Coblenz stepped down off the dais.
With her cloud of gauze scarf enveloping her, she was like a
tulle-clouded "Springtime," done in the key of Botticelli.

"Oop-si-lah, lovey-dovey!" said Mr. Goldmark, tilting her elbow for the
downward step.

"Oop-si-lay, dovey-lovey!" said Miss Coblenz, relaxing to the support.

Gathering up her plentiful skirts, Mrs. Coblenz stepped off, too, but
back toward the secluded chair beside the potted hydrangea. A fine line
of pain, like a cord tightening, was binding her head, and she put up
two fingers to each temple, pressing down the throb.

"Mrs. Coblenz, see what I got for you!" She turned, smiling. "You don't
look like you need salad and green ice-cream.