“Try some of this liver and onions, Mrs. Blondheim; it’s delicious.”

Mrs. Blondheim partook and nibbled between her front teeth.  “I got a grand recipe for suss und sauer liver.  When we’re at home my Bella always says, ’Mamma, let’s have some liver and gedaemftes fleisch for lunch.’”

“Do you soak your liver first?” inquired Mrs. Epstein.  “My Louie won’t eat nothin’ suss und sauer.  It makes me so mad.  I got to cook different for every one in my family.  Louie won’t eat this and his father won’t eat that!”

“I’ll give you the recipe when I give you the one for the noodles.  Bella says it’s the best she ever ate.  My husband gets so mad when I go down in the kitchen—­me with two grand girls and washerwoman two days a week!  But the girls can’t cook to suit me.”

“Excuse me, too, from American cookin’.”

Mrs. Blondheim’s interest and gaze wandered down the dining-hall.  “I wish you’d look at that Sternberger girl actin’ up!  Ain’t it disgusting?”

“Please pass the salt, Mrs. Blondheim.  That’s the trouble with hotel cooking—­they don’t season.  At home we like plenty of it, too.  I season and season, and then at the table my husband has to have more.”

“She wouldn’t have met him at all if it hadn’t been for Bella,” pursued Mrs. Blondheim.

The object of Mrs. Blondheim’s solicitude, fresh as spring in crisp white linen, turned her long eyes upon Mr. Arnheim.

“You ought to feel flattered, Mr. Arnheim, that I let you come over to my table.”

Mr. Arnheim regarded her through a mist of fragrant coffee steam.  “You betcher life I feel flattered.  I’d get up earlier than this to have breakfast with a little queen.”

“Ain’t you ever goin’ to quit jollyin’?”

He leaned across the table.  “That ain’t a bad linen model you’re wearin’—­it’s domestic goods, too.  Where’d you get it?”

“At Lipman’s.”

“I sold them a consignment last year; but, say, if you want to see real classy white goods you ought to see some ratine cutaways I’m bringing over.  I’ve brought a model I’m goin’ to call the Phoebe Snow.  It’s the niftiest thing for early fall you ever saw.”

“Ratine?”

“You never heard of it?  That’s where I get my work in—­it’s the new lines, the novelty stuff, that gets the money.”

“Are you goin’ in the surf this morning, Mr. Arnheim?”

“I’m goin’ where you go, little one.”  He dropped two lumps of sugar into her coffee-cup.  “Sweets to the sweet,” he said.

“Silly!” But she giggled under her breath.

They pushed back their chairs and strolled down the aisle between the tables.  She smiled brightly to her right and left.

“Good morning, Mrs. Blondheim.  Is it warm enough for you?”

“Good morning,” replied Mrs. Blondheim, stabbing a bit of omelet with vindictive fork.

Mrs. Epstein looked after the pair with warming eyes.  “She is a stylish dresser, ain’t she?”