“Mrs. Suss!  Say—­if you hadn’t come, I was going to lay it up against you.  If my new ones can come on a day like this, it’s a pity my old friends can’t come, too.  Well, Sadie, it’s your turn next, eh?...  I know better than that.  With them pink cheeks and black eyes, I wish I had a dime for every chance.” (Sotto.) “Do you like it, Mrs. Suss?  Pussy-willow taffeta....  Say, it ought to be.  An estimate dress from Madame Murphy—­sixty-five with findings.  I’m so mad, Sara, you and your mama couldn’t come to the house that night to see her things.  If I say so myself, Mrs. Suss, everybody who seen it says Jacob Sinsheimer’s daughter herself didn’t have a 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, ‘Mama, 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.”

“Mama, ’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.