"Oh, show her the way the zebra in the Park goes on Sunday morning, Arch!" He inserted two fingers, splaying his mouth. "Heigh-ho! He-e-e-e-e-e-e-e!" "Ain't that lifelike, Stella?" "It sure is." "Oh, look! Up there--the third story--see--those are the Cobbs' windows, all lit up! Oh, gee! I just can't make my feet behave. Waltz me around again, Archie! No; you got to take the first dance with Stella." "Oh no, Cora; he wants--" "You hear, Arch?" "Sure; only, I can't force her if she don't want to." "Sure she wants to! Hurry! I hear Skinnay Flint's ukulele. Gee! I just can't make my feet be-have!" They entered an institutional, sanitary, and legislation-smelling box of foyer and up three flights of fire-proof stairs. At each landing were four fire-proof doors, lettered. The Cobbs' door, "H," stood open, an epicene medley of voices and laughter floating down the long neck of hallway on the syncopated whine of a ukulele. There was an immediate parting of ways, Mr. Sensenbrenner hanging his cap on an already well-filled rack of pegs and making straight for the sound of revelry by night. The girls made foray into a little side pocket of bedroom for the changing of shoes, whitening of noses, and various curlicue preambles. "Stella, your hair looks swell!" "Ma plaited it up last night with sugar-water." "Here, just this speck on your lips, just a little to match your cheeks!--See--all the girls use it." "Ugh--no--" "There, just a stroke. Fine! Say, wasn't Arch killing to-night when he called my cheeks naturally curly?" "You look grand, Cora. Sure you don't want your pink beads?" "I'll throw 'em down and step on 'em if you take 'em off." "I just love that changeable silk on you." "Does the split under the arm show?" "Notta bit." "Come on, then!" "Oh, Cora--" "Come on!" In the Cobb front room a frightened exodus of furniture had taken place. A leather-and-oak "davenbed" had obviously and literally been dragged to the least conspicuous corner. An unpainted center of floor space showed that there had been a rug. Camp-chairs had been introduced against all available wall space. Only a fan-shaped, three-shelved cabinet of knickknacks had been allowed its corner. Diagonal from it, the horn of a talking-machine, in shape a large, a violent, a tin morning-glory, was directed full against the company. Not a brilliant scene, except by grace or gracelessness of state of mind. But to Stella Schump, neither elected nor electing to walk in greater glory, there was that about the Cobb front room thus lighted, thus animated, that gave her a sense of function--a crowding around the heart. The neck of hallway might have been a strip of purple, awninged. There were greetings that rose in crescendo and falsetto. "Cora Kinealy! Hello, Cora! How's every little thing?" "Baby-shoes--tra-la-la!" "Oh, you changeable-silk kiddo! Turn green for the ladies." "Come on over here, Cora, and make Arch tell fortunes!"