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She's done more for the house in eight months than Miss Isaacs did in ten years!" Miss Sternberger returned; a stock-boy wheeled in the new models on wooden figures while Mrs. Schlimberg and her new designer arranged them for display. Mrs. Schlimberg turned to Mr. Arnheim. "How's the wife and boys, Arnheim?
Almost immediately a svelte, black-gowned figure appeared in the doorway; she wore her hair oval about her face, like a Mona Lisa, and her hands were long and the dusky white of ivory. "Mr. Arnheim, I want to introduce you to a designer we've got since you went away. Mr. Arnheim Miss Sternberger." The whir of sewing-machines from the workrooms cut the silence.
"Are you finished with Love in a Cottage, Bella? I promised it to Mrs. Weiss when you're finished with it." "Yes," said Bella. "I'll bring it down to-night." There was another pause; the young man with the grayish hair coughed. "Mr. Arnheim, let me introduce you to my friend, Miss Sternberger." Miss Sternberger extended a highly groomed hand. "Pleased to meet you," she said.
Blondheim stabbed her crochet needle into her spool. "I usually dip my smelts in bread crumbs. Have you ever tried them that way, Hanna?" "Julius don't eat smelts." They moved toward the dining-room. Late that afternoon Miss Sternberger and Mr. Arnheim returned from a sail. Their faces were flushed and full of shy, sweet mystery.
Her eyes, upslanting and full of languor, looked out over the toiling, moiling ocean. She was outlined as gently as a Rembrandt. "A penny for your thoughts, Miss Sternberger." Mr. Arnheim, the glowing end of a newly lighted cigar in one corner of his mouth, peered his head over her shoulder. "Oh, Mr. Arnheim, how you scared me!"
Arnheim hopped on one foot and then on the other, holding his head aslant. Then they stretched out on the white, sunbaked beach. Miss Sternberger loosened her hair and it showered about her. "Gee! 'Ain't you got a swell bunch of hair!" She shook and fluffed it. "You ought to seen it before I had typhoid. I could sit on it then."
Mrs. Blondheim's interest and gaze wandered down the dining-hall. "I wish you'd look at that Sternberger girl actin' up! Ain't it disgusting?" "Please pass the salt, Mrs. Blondheim. That's the trouble with hotel cooking they don't season. At home we like plenty of it, too. I season and season, and then at the table my husband has to have more."
In the white-capped surf bathers bobbed and shouted, and all along the shore-line the tide ran gently up the beach and down again, leaving a smooth, damp stretch of sand which soughed and sucked beneath the steps of the bathers. Far out, where the waters were highest and the whitecaps maddest, Mr. Arnheim held Miss Sternberger about her slim waist and raised her high over each rushing breaker.
"That's a neat little model you're wearin'." "Aw, Mr. Arnheim, what do you know about clothes?" Mr. Arnheim threw back his head and laughed long and loud. "What do I know about clothes? I only been in the biz for eight years. What I don't know about ladies' wear ain't in the dictionary." "Well," said Miss Sternberger, "that's so; I did hear you was in the business."
"Lillian Russell is going to wear it in the second act of her new play when she opens to-morrow night." "I guess we're slow in here," chuckled Mrs. Schlimberg, nudging Mr. Arnheim with the point of her elbow. Miss Sternberger spread the square train of a flame-colored robe full length on the green carpet and drew back a corner of the hem to display the lacy avalanche beneath.
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