t havin' any steadies. Where's a straight-walkin'
girl like me goin' to get 'em? Look at that rain, will you!--and me
tellin' him I'd be there in tan, with red ribbon on the lapel!"

"Paper says rain for three days, too. Angie's a old devil, all-righty,
or you could meet him in your flat."

"He's going to wear a white carnation and a piece of fern on his left
coat lapel; and if he don't look good I ain't going up."

"What did he call hisself--'a bachelor of refined and retiring habits'?
Thank Gawd!--if I do say it--George is refined, but he ain't
over-retirin'. It's the retirin' kind that like to sit at home in their
carpet slippers instead of goin' to a picture-show. Straighten that bin
of pearl buttons, will you, Til? Say, how my feet do burn to-night! It's
the weather--I might 'a' known it was goin' to rain."

Tillie ran a nervous finger down inside her collar; there was a tremolo
in her quail-like voice.

"A fellow that writes a grand little letter like him can't be so
bad--and it's better to have 'em retirin'-like than too fresh. Listen!
It's real poetry-like: 'Meet me in the Sixth Avenue Drug Store, Miss 27.
I'll have a white carnation and a piece of fern in my left buttonhole,
and a smile that won't come off; and when I spy the yellow jacket I'm
comin' up and say, "Hello!" And if I look good I want you to say
"Hello!" back.' ... The invisible hair-pins only come by the box, ma'am.
Umbrellas across the aisle, ma'am.... That ain't so bad for a start, is
it, Mame?... Ten cents a box, ma'am."

"You got your nerve, all-righty, Til--but, gee! I glory in your spunk.
If I was tied to a old devil like Angie I'd try it, too. Is the back of
my collar all right, Til? Look at Myrtle out there, will you--how she's
lovin' that mackintosh sale!"

"Water spots tan, don't it?" said Tillie, balancing her cash-book.

At six o'clock the store finished its last lap with a hysterical singing
of electric bells, grillingly intense and too loud, like a woman who
laughs with a sob in her throat.

Tillie untied her black alpaca apron, snapped a rubber band about her
cash-book, concealed it beneath the notion-shelves, and brushed her
black-serge skirt with a whisk-broom borrowed from stock.

"Good night, Mame! I guess you're waitin' for George, ain't you? See you
in the morning. I'll have lots to tell you, too."

"Good night, Til! Remember, if he turns out to be a model for a
classy-clothes haberdashery, it was me put you on to t