Binkley asked her out to dinner.
Mr. Binkley was the gay boy of the boarding-house. He was forty-nine,
and owned a fishstall in a downtown market. But after six o'clock he
wore an evening suit and whooped things up connected with the beaux
arts. The young men said he was an "Indian." He was supposed to be
an accomplished habitue of the inner circles of Bohemia. It was no
secret that he had once loaned $10 to a young man who had had a
drawing printed in _Puck_. Often has one thus obtained his entree
into the charmed circle, while the other obtained both his entree and
roast.
The other boarders enviously regarded Medora as she left at Mr.
Binkley's side at nine o'clock. She was as sweet as a cluster of
dried autumn grasses in her pale blue--oh--er--that very thin
stuff--in her pale blue Comstockized silk waist and box-pleated voile
skirt, with a soft pink glow on her thin cheeks and the tiniest bit
of rouge powder on her face, with her handkerchief and room key in
her brown walrus, pebble-grain hand-bag.
And Mr. Binkley looked imposing and dashing with his red face and
gray mustache, and his tight dress coat, that made the back of his
neck roll up just like a successful novelist's.
They drove in a cab to the Cafe Terence, just off the most glittering
part of Broadway, which, as every one knows, is one of the most
popular and widely patronized, jealously exclusive Bohemian resorts
in the city.
Down between the rows of little tables tripped Medora, of the Green
Mountains, after her escort.
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