open streetcars and open shirtwaists blossomed forth even as the
distant larkspur in the distant field, Madam Moores beheld the
electric-protection door swing behind the last customer and relaxed
frankly against a table piled high with fabrics of a dozen sheens.

"Whew! Thank heavens, she's gone!"

To a symphony of six-o'clock whistles the rumble of machines from the
workrooms suddenly ceased.

"Turn out the shower lights, Phonzie, and see that Van Nord's black lace
goes out in time for opera to-night. When she telephoned at noon I told
her it was on the way."

Mr. Alphonse Michelson hurtled a mauve-colored footstool and hastened
rearward toward the swinging-door that led to the emptying workrooms.
The tallest of the perfect-thirty-sixes, stepping out of her beaded
slippers into sturdier footwear of the street, threw him a smile as
he passed that set her glittering earrings and metal-yellow ringlets
bobbing like bells in a breeze.

"Hand me the shoe-buttoner, Phonzie. The doctor says stooping is bad for
my hair-pins."

Their laughter, light as foam, met and mingled.

"Oh, you nervy Gertie!"

"What's your hurry, Phonzie dearie?"