There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young lady cashier.  She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce; she is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and coin, leading lady of love and luncheon.  You take from her a smile and a Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining.  You count the cheery word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures; and you pocket the change for a five uncomputed.  Perhaps the brass-bound inaccessibility multiplies her charms—­anyhow, she is a shirt-waisted angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive, bright-eyed, ready, alert—­Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you from your circulating medium after your sirloin medium.

The young men who broke bread at Hinkle’s never settled with the cashier without an exchange of badinage and open compliment.  Many of them went to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre tickets and chocolates.  The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms, generally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem flats.  One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss Merriam more regularly than he ate.

During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam’s conversation, while she took money for checks, would run something like this: 

“Good morning, Mr. Haskins—­sir?—­it’s natural, thank you—­don’t be quite so fresh . . .  Hello, Johnny—­ten, fifteen, twenty—­chase along now or they’ll take the letters off your cap . . .  Beg pardon—­count it again, please—­Oh, don’t mention it . . .  Vaudeville?—­thanks; not on your moving picture—­I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on Wednesday night with Mr. Simmons . . .  ’Scuse me, I thought that was a quarter . . .  Twenty-five and seventy-five’s a dollar—­got that ham-and-cabbage habit yet.  I see, Billy . . .  Who are you addressing?—­say—­you’ll get all that’s coming to you in a minute . . .  Oh, fudge!  Mr. Bassett—­you’re always fooling—­no—?  Well, maybe I’ll marry you some day—­three, four and sixty-five is five . . .  Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you please . . .  Ten cents?—­’scuse me; the check calls for seventy—­well, maybe it is a one instead of a seven . . .  Oh, do you like it that way, Mr. Saunders?—­some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de Merody does suit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . .  Hike along there, buddy; don’t take this for a Coney Island ticket booth . . .  Huh?—­why, Macy’s—­don’t it fit nice?  Oh, no, it isn’t too cool—­these light-weight fabrics is all the go this season . . .  Come again, please—­that’s the third time you’ve tried to—­what?—­forget it—­that lead quarter is an old friend of mine . . .  Sixty-five?—­must have had your salary raised, Mr. Wilson . . .  I seen you on Sixth Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De Forest—­swell?—­oh, my!—­who is she? . . .  What’s the matter with it?—­why, it ain’t money—­what?—­Columbian half?—­well, this ain’t South America . . .  Yes, I like