Page:The Voice of the City (1908).djvu/30

 year-old daughter was playing on the steps. Hopkins gave her a nice, red rose and walked upstairs.

Mrs. Hopkins was philandering with curl-papers.

“Get your cigar?” she asked, disinterestedly.

“Sure,” said Hopkins, “and I knocked around a while outside. It’s a nice night.”

He sat upon the hornblende sofa, took out the stump of his cigar, lighted it, and gazed at the graceful figures in “The Storm” on the opposite wall.

“I was telling you,” said he, “about Mr. Whipple’s suit. It’s a gray, with an invisible check, and it looks fine.”