spending our vacation? I’ve always wanted to put up at a swell hotel, and I saved up out of my twenty per., and did it. Say, Mame, how about a trip to Coney Saturday night on the boat—what?”
The face of the pseudo Madame Héloise D’Arcy Beaumont beamed.
“Oh, you bet I’ll go, Mr. Farrington. The store closes at twelve on Saturdays. I guess Coney’ll be all right even if we did spend a week with the swells.”
Below the balcony the sweltering city growled and buzzed in the July night. Inside the Hotel Lotus the tempered, cool shadows reigned, and the solicitous waiter single-footed near the low windows, ready at a nod to serve Madame and her escort.
At the door of the elevator Farrington took his leave, and Madame Beaumont made her last ascent. But before they reached the noiseless cage he said: “Just forget that ‘Harold Farrington,’ will you?—McManus is the name—James McManus. Some call me Jimmy.”
“Good-night, Jimmy,” said Madame.
[177]
