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Updated: May 15, 2025
I bet yer Max will get the biggest oitermobile he can find up there right away, and he's going to steal her away from us, sure, if we don't hustle." "Dreams you got it, Abe," Morris said. "How should this here young feller, Ralph Tuchman, know that Miss Aaronson was a customer of his Uncle Max Tuchman, Abe?" Abe looked at Morris more in sorrow than in anger.
Once he called her Miss Aaronson, but the look of amazement with which she favored him effectually discouraged him from further experiment in that direction. Thenceforth he called her "lady," a title which made her smile and seemed to keep her in excellent humor.
"Please send this to Miss Isaacson," he said, handing out a firm card. The clerk consulted an index and shook his head. "No Miss Isaacson registered here," he said. "Oh, sure not," Morris cried, smiling apologetically. "I mean Miss Aaronson." Once more the clerk pawed over his card index. "You've got the wrong hotel," he declared. "I don't see any Miss Aaronson here, either."
They consisted of three rooms: an outer waiting room, a room inhabited by three clerks, that is to say a senior clerk, Mr. Aaronson, and two subordinates, and an inner room where Mulhausen dwelt. Jones, on giving his name, was shown at once into the inner room where Mulhausen was seated at his desk.
The habit of meeting young men in sequestered spots was not unknown to her: the novelty was in feeling any embarrassment about it. Even now she was disturbed not so much by the unlikely chance of an accidental encounter with Ralph Marvell as by the remembrance of similar meetings, far from accidental, with the romantic Aaronson.
The act accomplished, he sat down as a boa constrictor recoils itself, still gulping. Marcus Mulhausen rushed to the door and opened it. A vast policeman stood before him, behind the policeman crowded Mr. Aaronson and the clerks, and behind these a dozen or two of the block dwellers, eager for gory sights at a distance. Marcus looked round. "What's all this?" said he.
"Why," Morris answered, "that's Miss Aaronson I mean Atkinson ain't it?" "Atkinson!" Abe yelled. "That ain't Miss Atkinson." "Then who is she?" Morris asked. "Who is she?" Abe repeated. "That's a fine question for you to ask me. You take a lady for a fifteen-dollar oitermobile ride, and spend it as much more for lunch in her, and you don't even know her name!"
"Abe," he cried, "Miss Aaronson is downstairs." Abe's face, which wore a worried frown, grew darker still as he regarded his partner malevolently. "What's the matter with you, Mawruss?" he said. "Can't you remember a simple name like Atkinson?" "Atkinson!" Morris cried. "That's it Atkinson. I've been trying to remember it that name for four hours already. But, anyhow, she's downstairs, Abe."
"Oh, Undine!" fluttered Mrs. Spragg. She always had palpitations when Undine rode, and since the Aaronson episode her fears were not confined to what the horse might do. "Why don't you take your mother out shopping a little?" Mr. Spragg suggested, conscious of the limitation of his resources.
Harry Lipscomb had insisted on investigating the riding-master's record, and had found that his real name was Aaronson, and that he had left Cracow under a charge of swindling servant-girls out of their savings; in the light of which discoveries Undine noticed for the first time that his lips were too red and that his hair was pommaded.
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