a virgin bowing before the hot breath of the lions in a Roman arena.
Miss Carrington’s penetrating but musical laugh rose above the orchestra’s rendering of “Bluebells.”
“Oh, say!” she cried, with glee, “aint’t those poky places the limit? I just know that two hours at Cranberry Corners would give me the horrors now. Well,’ I’m awful glad to have seen you, Mr. Summers. I guess I’ll hustle around to the hotel now and get my beauty sleep.”
She thrust the yellow rose into the bosom of her wonderful, dainty, silken garments, stood up and nodded imperiously at Herr Goldstein.
Her three companions and “Bill Summers” attended her to her cab. When her flounces and streamers were all safely tucked inside she dazzled them with au revoirs from her shining eyes and teeth.
“Come around to the hotel and see me, Bill, before you leave the city,” she called as the glittering cab rolled away.
Highsmith, still in his make-up, went with Herr Goldstein to a café booth.
“Bright idea, eh?” asked the smiling actor. “Ought to land ‘Sol Haytosser’ for me, don’t you think? The little lady never once tumbled.”
“I didn’t hear your conversation,” said Goldstein. “but your make-up and acting was O. K. Here’s to your success. You’d better call on Miss Carrington
[185]
