"Come along with me," said Drouet. "I can introduce you to something dead swell."
"Who is it?" said the other.
"Oh, a couple of girls over here in Fortieth Street. We could have a dandy time. I was just looking for you."
"Supposing we get 'em and take 'em out to dinner?"
"Sure," said Drouet. "Wait'll I go upstairs and change my clothes."
"Well, I'll be in the barber shop," said the other. "I want to get a shave."
"All right," said Drouet, creaking off in his good shoes toward the elevator. The old butterfly was as light on the wing as ever.
On an incoming vestibuled Pullman, speeding at forty miles an hour through the snow of the evening, were three others, all related.
"First call for dinner in the dining-car," a Pullman servitor was announcing, as he hastened through the aisle in snow-white apron and jacket.
"I don't believe I want to play any more," said the youngest, a black-haired beauty, turned supercilious by fortune, as she pushed a euchre hand away from her.
"Shall we go into dinner?" inquired her husband, who was all that fine raiment can make.
"Oh, not yet," she answered. "I don't want to play any more, though."
"Jessica," said her mother, who was also a study in what good clothing can do for age, "push that pin down in your tie—it's coming up."
Jessica obeyed, incidentally touching at her lovely hair and looking at a little jewel-faced watch. Her husband studied her, for beauty, even cold, is fascinating from one point of view.
