“My friend, Mr. Louis Epstein,” she said.

The men shook hands.

“Related to the Epstein & Son Millinery Company, Broadway and Spring?”

“Thertainly am.  I happen to be the thon mythelf.”

“Was you in the surf this mornin’, Bella?  It was grand!”

“No, Myra,” replied her friend.  “Mr. Epstein and me took a trip to Ocean View.”

“You missed the water this mornin’.  It was fine and dandy!” volunteered Mr. Arnheim.

“Me and Mr. Epstein are goin’ this afternoon—­ain’t we?”

“We thertainly are,” agreed Mr. Epstein, regarding Miss Blondheim with small, admiring eyes.

Miss Sternberger edged away.  “Pleased to have met you, Mr. Epstein.”

Mr. Arnheim edged with her and they moved on their way toward the dining-room.

Mrs. Blondheim from her point of vantage—­the wicker rocker—­leaned toward her sister-in-law.

“Look, Hanna! that’s Louie Epstein, of the Epstein & Son Millinery Company, with Bella.  He’s a grand boy.  I meet his mother at Doctor Bergenthal’s lecture every Saturday morning.  Epstein & Son have got a grand business, and Bella could do a whole lot worse.”

“Well, I wish her luck,” said Mrs. Blondheim’s sister-in-law.

“I smell fried smelts.  Let’s go in to lunch.”

Mrs. Blondheim stabbed her crochet needle into her spool.  “I usually dip my smelts in bread crumbs.  Have you ever tried them that way, Hanna?”

“Julius don’t eat smelts.”

They moved toward the dining-room.

Late that afternoon Miss Sternberger and Mr. Arnheim returned from a sail.  Their faces were flushed and full of shy, sweet mystery.

“I can’t show you the models the way I’d like to, dearie, but I got ’em in colors just like the real thing.”

“Oh, Simon, you’re doin’ a thing like this for me without me even askin’ you!”

His hold of her arm tightened.  “I wouldn’t show these here to my own sister before the twenty-fifth of the month.  Now you know how you stand with me, little one.”

“Oh,” she cried, “I’m so excited!  It’s just like lookin’ behind the scenes in a theayter.”

He left her and returned a few moments later with a flat, red-covered portfolio.  They sought out an unmolested spot and snuggled in a corner of a plush divan in one of the deserted parlors.  He drew back the cover and their heads bent low.

At each turn of the pages she breathed her ecstasy and gave out shrills and calls of admiration.

“Oh, Simon, ain’t that pink one a beauty!  Ain’t that skirt the swellest thing you ever seen!”

“That’s the Piquette model, girlie.  You and all New York will be buyin’ it in another month.  Ain’t it the selectest little thing ever?”

Her face was rapt.  “It’s the swellest thing I’ve ever seen!” she declared.

He turned to another plate.

“Oh-h-h-h-h!” she cried.