“Well, how’s Mr. Latz this evening?” asked Mrs. Samstag, her smile encompassing the question.

“If I was any better I couldn’t stand it,” relishing her smile and his reply.

The Bon Ton had just dined, too well, from fruit flip a la Bon Ton, mulligatawny soup, filet of sole saute, choice of or both poulette emince and spring lamb grignon, and on through to fresh strawberry ice cream in fluted paper boxes, petits fours, and demi-tasse.  Groups of carefully corseted women stood now beside the invitational plush divans and peacock chairs, paying twenty minutes’ after-dinner standing penance.  Men with Wall Street eyes and blood pressure slid surreptitious celluloid toothpicks and gathered around the cigar stand.  Orchestra music flickered.  Young girls, the traditions of demure sixteen hanging by one-inch shoulder straps, and who could not walk across a hardwood floor without sliding the last three steps, teetered in bare arm-in-arm groups, swapping persiflage with pimply, patent-leather-haired young men who were full of nervous excitement and eager to excel in return badinage.

Bell hops scurried with folding tables.  Bridge games formed.

The theater group got off, so to speak.  Showy women and show-off men.  Mrs. Gronauer, in a full-length mink coat that enveloped her like a squaw, a titillation of diamond aigrettes in her Titianed hair, and an aftermath of scent as tangible as the trail of a wounded shark, emerged from the elevator with her son and daughter-in-law.

“Foi!” said Mr. Latz, by way of somewhat unduly, perhaps, expressing his own kind of cognizance of the scented trail.

“Fleur de printemps,” said Mrs. Samstag, in quick olfactory analysis.  “Eight-ninety-eight an ounce.”  Her nose crawling up to what he thought the cunning perfection of a sniff.

“Used to it from home—­not?  She is not.  Believe me, I knew Max Gronauer when he first started in the produce business in Jersey City and the only perfume he had was at seventeen cents a pound and not always fresh killed at that. Cold storage de printemps!”

“Max Gronauer died just two months after my husband,” said Mrs. Samstag, tucking away into her beaded handbag her filet-lace handkerchief, itself guilty of a not inexpensive attar.

“Thu-thu!” clucked Mr. Latz for want of a fitting retort.

“Heigh-ho!  I always say we have so little in common, me and Mrs. Gronauer, she revokes so in bridge, and I think it’s terrible for a grandmother to blondine so red, but we’ve both been widows for almost eight years.  Eight years,” repeated Mrs. Samstag on a small, scented sigh.

He was inordinately sensitive to these allusions, reddening and wanting to seem appropriate.

“Poor little woman, you’ve had your share of trouble.”

“Share,” she repeated, swallowing a gulp and pressing the line of her eyebrows as if her thoughts were sobbing.  “I—­It’s as I tell Alma, Mr. Latz, sometimes I think I’ve had three times my share.  My one consolation is that I try to make the best of it.  That’s my motto in life, ‘Keep a bold front.’”