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 They had begun dinner. Half-smoked cigarettes and bits of pickled fish lay on the oil-streaked plates, the wineglasses were blood-red bubbles. A snowdrift of ermine hung over a pushed-back chair.

"That belongs to the pot of orange marmalade prowling around out there with the boneless young man with black lacquer hair. Her name's Mrs. Milton Prather, and you mustn't laugh out loud when you meet her."

Joe looked at Mrs. Prather. Red good-natured face, waved orange hair, fat body in orange chiffon, ankles bulging from crossed gold ribbons, insteps bulging from tight gold slippers—one could imagine the cruel red lines when the slippers came off, the burst with which the stays popped open. She had sketched on black eyebrows and rubbed blue around her eyes, and a little gold case dangling from her finger held the scarlet for her large square mouth.

"The creature she's dancing with is named Harry Fisher. She takes him everywhere she goes, to dance with her and kiss her hand—wait till you see it! As if he were smelling something bad and throwing it away. Some people say he acts as a maid for her, but that's not true; she has another maid. She took dancing lessons from somebody—Maurice, wasn't it, Bill? At a million dollars a minute. She's not so bad if you don't look higher than the feet. Oh, my God, no! I take it all back! I've drunk too much already; I'm getting maudlinly kind and charitable."