Since this was the closest her face and eyes had ever been to him, he forgot to pay her and had to be reminded of that important duty by Polly and all the boys in unison.  There was a faint evasive trace of perfume about her, more like the freshness of morning or the delicacy of starlight than an actual essence, he vaguely thought with a groping return to his poetic inclination.  He felt the warmth of her velvet cheek, even at its distance of a foot away, and there seemed to be a pulsing thrill in the very air which intervened.  For a startled instant he found himself gazing deep down into her brown eyes.  In that instant her red lips curved in a fleeting smile—­a smile of the type which needs moist eyes to carry its tenderness.  It was all over in a flash, only a fragment of a second, which seemed a blissful pulsing eternity; and at its conclusion he thought that her finger quivered as it brushed his own, where he held out the lapel of his coat, and her cheek paled ever so slightly—­but these were dreams, he knew.

“I’m next, I think,” grated a usually suave voice which now had a decided tinge of unpleasantness; and Paul Gresham, selecting a bunch of violets from the tray, held them out toward Constance, impatient to end the all too pretty tableau.

“Next and served,” Polly briskly told him; and, taking the boutonniere from his fingers, she whisked it into place and pinned it and extracted his money—­all apparently in one deft operation.

“Thanks,” said Gresham, blinking with the suddenness of it all and sweeping with a glance of gloomy dissatisfaction, Polly, the bouquet, Constance and Johnny.  “I thought you were to be in the caramel booth, Constance.”

“I’m just going back,” she informed him, pausing to straighten Johnny’s lapel, patting it in place and stepping back to view the result with a critical eye.  It seemed to need another coaxing bend and another pat, both of which she calmly delivered.

A handsome passing couple caught Johnny’s eye—­a keen and vigorous-looking elderly gentleman, and Springtime come among them in the pink and white of apple blossoms—­sweet and fresh and smiling; as guileless as the May itself, but competent!

“Excuse me,” said Johnny, and tore himself away from the girl whose natural beauty made Mrs. Slosher an exquisite work of art.  “Beg your pardon, Mr. Slosher.”

Mr. Slosher turned and smiled.

“Hello, Mr. Gamble!” he greeted him, while Mrs. Slosher gave him a bright and cheery little nod.  “I played old-fashioned army poker with Colonel Bouncer and Ben Courtney and Mort Washer and Joe Close last night—­and the old robbers skinned me out of thirty-two dollars.  They spoke of you during the game and I guess you could get backing to any amount in that crowd.”

“Thanks for the tip,” returned Johnny.  “I may need it.”

“You’re going to give us our apartment-house property, aren’t you?” Mrs. Slosher knew by his very appearance.