Miss Sternberger rocked.

“Where did you say you live in New York, Miss Sternberger?”

“West One Hundred and Eleventh Street.”

“Oh yes—­are you related to the Morris Sternbergers in the boys’-pants business?”

“I think—­on my father’s side.”

“Honest, now!  Carrie Sternberger married my brother-in-law; and they’re doin’ grand, too!  He’s built up a fine business there.  Ain’t this a small woild after all!”

“It is that,” agreed Miss Sternberger.  “Why, last summer I was eatin’ three meals a day next to my first cousin and didn’t know it.”

“Look!” said Mrs. Blondheim.  “There’s those made-up Rosenstein goils comin’ out of the dinin’-room.  Look at the agony they put on, would you!  I knew ’em when they were livin’ over their hair-store on Twenty-thoid Street.  I wonder where my Bella is!”

“That’s a stylish messaline the second one’s got on, all right.  I think them beaded tunics are swell.”

“If it hadn’t been for the false-hair craze old man Rosenstein wouldn’t—­”

Mrs. Blondheim leaned forward in her chair; her little flowered-silk work-bag dropped to the floor.  “There’s Bella now!  Honest, that Mr. Arnheim ’ain’t left her once to-day, and he only got here this morning, too!  Such a fine young man, the clerk says; he’s been abroad six months and just landed yesterday—­and been with her all day.  When I think of the chances that goil had.  Why, Marcus Finberg, who was down here last week, was crazy about her!”

“Did you say that fellow’s name was Arnheim?”

“Yes.  ’Ain’t you heard of the Arnheim models?  He’s a grand boy, the clerk says, and the swellest importer of ladies’ wear in New York.”

Miss Sternberger leaned forward in her chair.  “Is that Simon Arnheim?”

“Sure.  He’s the one that introduced the hobble skoit.  My Bella was one of the foist to wear one.  There ain’t a fad that he don’t go over to Europe and get.  He made a fortune off the hobble skoit alone.”

“Is that so?”

“Believe me, if he wasn’t all right my Bella wouldn’t let him hang on that way.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

“I wish you could see that Babette Dreyfous eying my Bella!  She’s just green because Bella’s got him.”

“Do you use the double stitch in your crochet, Mrs. Blondheim?  That’s a pretty pattern you’re workin’ on.”

“Yes.  I’ve just finished a set of doilies you’d pay twenty-five dollars for anywhere.”

Miss Sternberger rose languidly to her feet.  “Well,” she said, “I guess I’ll take a stroll and go up to bed.”

“Don’t be so fidgety, Miss Sternberger; sit down by me and talk.”

Miss Sternberger smiled.  “I’ll see you later, Mrs. Blondheim; and don’t forget that preparation I was tellin’ you about—­Sloand’s Mosquito Skit.  Just rub the bottle stopper over your pillow and see if it don’t work.”

She moved away with the dignity of an emperor moth, slim and supple-hipped in a tight-wrapped gown.