them," he protested; "don't she, Mabel?"

"Sure she does," assented that lady.

"And your junk?" demanded Mannie, referring to the jade necklace
and the gold- plated bracelets. His eyes opened in sympathy.
"You haven't pawned them, have you?"

"Pawned them?" laughed Vera; "I couldn't get anything on them!"
As the only masculine point of view available, she appealed to
Mannie wistfully. "Don't you like me better this way, Mannie?"
she begged.

But that critic protested violently.

"Not a bit like it," he cried. "Now, in the gold tiara and the
spangled opera cloak," he differentiated, "you look like a
picture postal card! You got Lotta Faust's blue skirt back to
Levey's. But not in the white goods!" He shook his head sadly,
firmly. "You look, now, like you was made up for a May-day
picnic in the Bronx, and they'd picked on you to be Queen of the
May."

Mabel carried the much-admired opera cloak to Vera, and held it
out, tempting her. "You'll wear it, just to please me and
Mannie, won't you, dearie?" she begged. Vera retreated before it
as though it held the germs of contagion.

"I will not," she rebelled. "I hate it! When I have that on, I
feel -- mean. I feel as mean as though I were picking pennies