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Latz, sighing out a satisfaction of his inner man, sat himself down
on a red-velvet chair opposite Mrs. Samstag. His knees, widespread,
taxed his knife-pressed gray trousers to their very last capacity, but
he sat back in none the less evident comfort, building his fingers up
into a little chapel.
"Well, how's Mr. Latz this evening?" asked Mrs. Samstag, her smile
encompassing the question.
"If I was any better I couldn't stand it," relishing her smile and his
reply.
The Bon Ton had just dined, too well, from fruit flip _a la_ Bon Ton,
mulligatawny soup, filet of sole _saute_, choice of or both _poulette
emince_ and spring lamb _grignon_, and on through to fresh strawberry
ice cream in fluted paper boxes, _petits fours_, and _demi-tasse_.
Groups of carefully corseted women stood now beside the invitational
plush divans and peacock chairs, paying twenty minutes' after-dinner
standing penance. Men with Wall Street eyes and blood pressure slid
surreptitious celluloid toothpicks and gathered around the cigar stand.


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