diffused. Mademoiselle tugged a great coil of hair from Sidonie’s hands and let it fall out the window.
“Candy man, have you a sweetheart anywhere with hair as long and soft as that? And with an arm so round?” She flexed an arm like Galatea’s after the miracle across the window-sill.
The candy man cackled shrilly as he arranged a stock of butter-scotch that had tumbled down.
“Smoke up!” said he, vulgarly. ‘‘Nothin’ doin’ in the complimentary line. I’m too wise to be bamboozled by a switch of hair and a newly massaged arm. Oh, I guess you’ll make good in the calcium, all right, with plenty of powder and paint on and the orchestra playing ‘Under the Old Apple Tree.’ But don’t put on your hat and chase downstairs to fly to the Little Church Around the Corner with me. I’ve been up against peroxide and make-up boxes before. Say, all joking aside—don’t you think we’ll have rain?”
“Candy man,” said Mademoiselle, softly, with her lips curving and her chin dimpling, “don’t you think I’m pretty?”
The candy man grinned.
“Savin’ money, ain’t yer?” said he, “by bein’ yer own press agent. I smoke, but I haven’t seen yer mug on any of the five-cent cigar boxes. It’d take a new brand of woman to get me goin’, anyway. I know ’em from sidecombs to shoelaces. Gimme a good day’s sales
[120]
