"Meaning what?"
"You'll win the grand prize."
"Tish and tush, Ella," Ken said. "Who wants a diamond bracelet?"
"Pawnbrokers—at one third value, baby darling," the show boy replied. "I came all the way from New York to swing my precious hips on that runway. Is anyone else here from the show?"
"Not a soul. Frankie wasn't invited."
"Ernie is particular. Some of these belles are doctors and lawyers; and one, the fat lady who needs a couple of brassieres on her double chins, is the president of a bank."
"Just girls, ducky girls," Ken chimed.
"You are divine," Ray said. "What a pity you were born on a Friday."
"What's Friday?"
"Bitch's day, dearie, in the calendar of sin. Anyone as beautiful as you are can come to no good end."
"Who wants to come to a good end?" Ken mocked and went toward the runway.
To the unpractised eye, the figures that moved from portieres at the rear of the ball room through an aisle on the platform into the white blaze of spotlights were feminine. They walked with swaying bodies, arms poised, parading their costumes, preening themselves proudly as they exhibited their charms. The appearance of the first model was the signal for little cries of surprise and admiration. As the contest proceeded the hubbub grew. Favorites were hailed with "ah's" and "oh's"; their names bandied about the room, their chances appraised.
Two private policemen, who stood guard at the foot of
