the vibration of the track. He swayed with the motion of the car; and every now and then, he blinked like a man in a drop-elevator when the cage floor leaves his feet.
Not so the lady. She was a cloak model, "36 figure," in Sturm & Bergman's; and she had been parading all day, in various winter furs and jackets, before the critical eyes of wholesale buyers from out of town. She had walked up and down interminably, as graceful as a drawing-room belle, but as indifferent as a dummy. One of the younger buyers, admiring the stately creature in her "princess" gown of black brilliantine that fitted her like a mold, asked her, with an air of gallantry, whether she did not ever tire. She lowered a supercilious stare on him, and said "Uh!" The salesman interposed hastily: "Now here 's one of our newest designs—"
At six o'clock, she turned from the window where she had been idle, and went to the dressing-rooms to put off her "harness" and clothe herself for the street. She did not hurry. The younger girls giggled and chattered around her, arraying themselves in open-work finery and picture hats. She was the last to leave. Her face had lost its work-hour heaviness and flushed, with the faintest twinkle of excitement.
It returned to affected indifference when she saw Carney across the street. They met, as if by accident, at the corner. "Well?" she said.
He reached his hat-brim awkwardly, his coat pinching him under the arms. "How yuh been?"
