the mixed best—­Friday?—­awfully sorry, but I take my jiu-jitsu lesson on Friday—­Thursday, then . . .  Thanks—­that’s sixteen times I’ve been told that this morning—­I guess I must be beautiful . . .  Cut that out, please—­who do you think I am? . . .  Why, Mr. Westbrook—­do you really think so?—­the idea!—­one—­eighty and twenty’s a dollar—­thank you ever so much, but I don’t ever go automobile riding with gentlemen—­your aunt?—­well, that’s different—­perhaps . . .  Please don’t get fresh—­your check was fifteen cents, I believe—­kindly step aside and let . . .  Hello, Ben—­coming around Thursday evening?—­there’s a gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty and sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . .”

About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo—­whose other name is Fortune—­suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker while he was walking past Hinkle’s, on his way to a street car.  A wealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is—­move up, please; there are others.

A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the spot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle’s restaurant.  When the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a beautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing his forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frappe out of a chafing-dish.  Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed with deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered consciousness.

To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance!  Banker McRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward Miss Merriam were fatherly.  He talked to her for half an hour with interest—­not the kind that went with his talks during business hours.  The next day he brought Mrs. McRamsey down to see her.  The old couple were childless—­they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn.

To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts of the good old couple.  They came to Hinkle’s again and again; they invited her to their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East Seventies.  Miss Merriam’s winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and impulsive heart took them by storm.  They said a hundred times that Miss Merriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter.  The Brooklyn matron, nee Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal of an art photographer.  Miss Merriam was a combination of curves, smiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters.  Enough of the fatuity of parents.

A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam, she stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership.