"I ain't afraid. Say, if Effie Jones Lipkind can answer one, with her behind-the-counter stoop and squint, and get away with it, there ain't no reason why there ain't more grand fellows like Gus Lipkind writin' ads." "Come out of the dark room, Til! Effie had two hundred saved up." "I ain't ashamed of not havin' any steadies. Where's a straight-walkin' girl like me goin' to get 'em? Look at that rain, will you!--and me tellin' him I'd be there in tan, with red ribbon on the lapel!" "Paper says rain for three days, too. Angie's a old devil, all-righty, or you could meet him in your flat." "He's going to wear a white carnation and a piece of fern on his left coat lapel; and if he don't look good I ain't going up." "What did he call hisself--'a bachelor of refined and retiring habits'? Thank Gawd!--if I do say it--George is refined, but he ain't over-retirin'. It's the retirin' kind that like to sit at home in their carpet slippers instead of goin' to a picture-show. Straighten that bin of pearl buttons, will you, Til? Say, how my feet do burn to-night! It's the weather--I might 'a' known it was goin' to rain." Tillie ran a nervous finger down inside her collar; there was a tremolo in her quail-like voice. "A fellow that writes a grand little letter like him can't be so bad--and it's better to have 'em retirin'-like than too fresh. Listen! It's real poetry-like: 'Meet me in the Sixth Avenue Drug Store, Miss 27. I'll have a white carnation and a piece of fern in my left buttonhole, and a smile that won't come off; and when I spy the yellow jacket I'm comin' up and say, "Hello!" And if I look good I want you to say "Hello!" back.' ... The invisible hair-pins only come by the box, ma'am. Umbrellas across the aisle, ma'am.... That ain't so bad for a start, is it, Mame?... Ten cents a box, ma'am." "You got your nerve, all-righty, Til--but, gee! I glory in your spunk. If I was tied to a old devil like Angie I'd try it, too. Is the back of my collar all right, Til? Look at Myrtle out there, will you--how she's lovin' that mackintosh sale!" "Water spots tan, don't it?" said Tillie, balancing her cash-book. At six o'clock the store finished its last lap with a hysterical singing of electric bells, grillingly intense and too loud, like a woman who laughs with a sob in her throat. Tillie untied her black alpaca apron, snapped a rubber band about her cash-book, concealed it beneath the notion-shelves, and brushed her black-serge skirt with a whisk-broom borrowed from stock. "Good night, Mame! I guess you're waitin' for George, ain't you? See you in the morning. I'll have lots to tell you, too." "Good night, Til! Remember, if he turns out to be a model for a classy-clothes haberdashery, it was me put you on to the idea." Tillie pressed a black-felt sailor tight down on her head until only a rim of brown hair remained, slid into her black jacket, and hurried out with an army of workers treading at her slightly run-down heels and nerves.