its teeming throngs. Madison Square lay smiling in the sunshine like a happy courtesan, with no hint of its real use as Wayside Inn for all the old, the poor, the derelict, whose tired feet could find refuge there. The vista of the avenue lay ahead.
“It’s like a necklace of sparkling pearls,” Bambi said, with incessant craning of her neck. “I feel like standing up and singing ‘The Song of the Bazaars.’ There isn’t a stuff, nor a silk, nor a gem from Araby to Samarkand that isn’t here.”
“It bewitches you, doesn’t it?” Jarvis commented.
“Think of the wonder of it! Camel trains, and caravans, merchant ships on all the seas, trains, and electric trucks, all bringing the booty of the world to this great, shining bazaar for you and me. It’s thrilling.”
“So it is,” he agreed. “I hope you mark the proportion of shops for men—dresses, hats, jewels, furs, motor clothes, tea rooms, candy shops, corsetières, florists, bootmakers, all for women. Motor cars are full of women. Are there no men in this menagerie?”
“No. They are all cliff-dwellers downtown. They probably wear loin cloths of a fashionable cut,” she laughed back at him.
“They all look just alike—so many manikins
