“I ain’t, neither, waiting.  I guess I have a right to find my gloves.  I—­I guess I gotta right.  He’s as good as you are, and better.  I—­I guess I gotta right.”  But the raspberry red of confusion dyed her face.

“No, you ain’t waiting!  No, no; you ain’t waiting,” mimicked Miss Krakow, and her voice was like autumn leaves that crackle underfoot.  “Well, then, if you ain’t waiting here he comes now.  I dare you to come on home with me now, like you ought to.”

“I—­You go on!  I gotta tell him something.  I guess I’m my own boss.  I have to tell him something.”

Miss Krakow folded her well-worn hand-bag under one arm and fastened her black cotton gloves.

“Pf-f-f!  What’s the use of wasting breath?”

She slipped into the flux of the aisle, and the tide swallowed her and carried her out into the bigger tide of the street and the swifter tide of the city—­a flower on the current, her blush withered under the arc-light substitution for sunlight, the petals of her youth thrown to the muddy corners of the city streets.

Sara Juke breathed inward, and under her cheaply pretentious lace blouse a heart, as rebellious as the pink in her cheeks and the stars in her eyes, beat a rapid fantasia; and, try as she would, her lips would quiver into a smile.

“Hello, Charley!”

“Hello yourself, Sweetness!” And, draping himself across the white-goods counter in an attitude as intricate as the letter S, behold Mr. Charley Chubb!  Sleek, soap-scented, slim—­a satire on the satyr and the haberdasher’s latest dash.  “Hello, Sweetness!”

“How are you, Charley?”

“Here, gimme your little hand.  Shake.”

She placed her palm in his, quivering.

You of the classes, peering through lorgnettes into the strange world of the masses, spare that shrug.  True, when Charley Chubb’s hand closed over Sara Juke’s she experienced a flash of goose flesh; but, you of the classes, what of the Van Ness ball last night?  Your gown was low, so that your neck rose out from it like white ivory.  The conservatory, where trained clematis vines met over your heads, was like a bower of stars; music, his hand, the white glove off, over yours; the suffocating sweetness of clematis blossoms; a fountain throwing fine spray; your neck white as ivory, and—­what of the Van Ness ball last night?

Only Sara Juke played her poor little game frankly, and the cards of her heart lay on the counter.

“Charley!” Her voice lay in a veil.

“Was you getting sore, Sweetness?”

“All day you didn’t come over.”

“Couldn’t, Sweetness.  Did you hear me let up on the new hit for a minute?”

“It’s swell, though, Charley; all the girls was humming it.  You play it like lightning, too.”

“It must have been written for you, Sweetness.  That’s what you are, Up to Snuff, eh, Queenie?” He leaned closer, and above his tall, narrow collar dull red flowed beneath the sallow, and his long, white teeth and slick-brushed hair shone in the arc-light.  “Eh, Queenie?”