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"Huh?" "I got an idea." "Shoot." "You remember once, honey-bee, how I put it to you that night at Ceiner's how, if it was for your good, no sacrifice was too much to make." "Forget it." "You didn't believe it." "Aw, say now, what's the use digging up ancient history?" "You'd be right, Jimmie, not to believe it. I haven't lived up to what I said." "Oh Lord, honey! What's eating you now?
There is no music except at five cents in the slot, and its tables for four are perpetually set each with a dish of sliced radishes, a bouquet of celery, and a mound of bread, half the stack rye. Its menus are well thumbed and badly mimeographed. Who enters Ceiner's is prepared to dine from barley soup to apple strudel.
"You mean it, boy? You ain't sorry about nothing, Jimmie?" "Sorry? Well, I guess not!" "You saw the way she May you saw for yourself what she was, when we saw her walking, that next night after Ceiner's, nearly staggering, up Sixth Avenue with Budge Evans." "I never took any stock in her, honey. I was just letting her like me."
Batch, than whom it was no other, turned off suddenly at right angles down into a dim pocket of side-street and into the illuminated entrance of Ceiner's Café Hungarian. Meals at all hours. Lunch, thirty cents. Dinner, fifty cents. Our Goulash is Famous.
In its light she was not so obviously blonder than young, the pink spots in her cheeks had a deepening value to the blue of her eyes, and a black velvet tam-o'-shanter revealing just the right fringe of yellow curls is no mean aid. First of all, Ceiner's is an eating-place.
There was a fair stream of passers-by even here, and occasionally one turned for a backward glance at her standing there so frankly indeterminate. Suddenly Miss Slayback adjusted her tam-o'-shanter to its flop over her right ear, and, drawing off a pair of dark-blue silk gloves from over immaculately new white ones, entered Ceiner's Café Hungarian.
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