Their Palm Beach things weren't in yet.
Rose made a few appreciative, but decidedly respect-compelling comments,
and faithfully kept one eye on the door.
The rest of the sextette arrived in a pair and a trio. One of them
squealed, "Hello, Dane!" The saleswoman got her shock on seeing Rose nod
an acknowledgment of this greeting and just about that time, they heard
Mrs. Goldsmith explaining who she was and the nature of her errand, to
the manager. The necessary identifications got themselves made somehow.
They weren't in any sense introductions, everybody in the store felt
that plainly. Mrs. Goldsmith was touching the skirts of musical comedy
with a very long pair of tongs. There was absolutely no connection,
social or personal, between herself and the young persons who were to
wear the frocks she was going to buy.
She stood them up and stared at them through her eye-glasses, discussed
their various physical idiosyncrasies with candor, and, one by one,
packed them off to try on haphazard selections from the mounds which
three industrious saleswomen piled up before her.
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