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“I hope,” said Miss Fink, pleasantly, “that the supply of 1874 will hold out till morning. I’d hate to see them have to come down to ten dollar wine. Here you, Tony! Come back here! I may be a new hand in this department but I’m not so green that you can put a gold label over on me as a yellow label. Notice that I’m checking you another fifty cents.”

“Ain’t he the grafter!” laughed Miss Sweeney. She leaned toward Miss Fink and lowered her voice discreetly. “Though I’ll say this for’m. If you let him get away with it now an’ then, he’ll split even with you. H’m? O, well, now, don’t get so high and mighty. The management expects it in this department. That’s why they pay starvation wages.”

An unusual note of color crept into Miss Gussie Fink’s smooth cheek. It deepened and glowed as Heiny darted around the corner and up to the bar. There was about him an air of suppressed excitement — suppressed, because Heiny was too perfect a waiter to display emotion.

“Not another!” chanted the bartenders, in chorus.

“Yes,” answered Henri, solemnly, and waited while the wine cellar was made to relinquish another rare jewel.

“O, you Heiny!” called Miss Sweeney, “tell us what she looks like. If I had time I’d take a peek myself. From what Tony says she must look something like Maxine Elliot, only brighter.”

Henri turned. He saw Miss Fink. A curious little expression came into his eyes–a Heiny look, it might have been called, as he regarded his erstwhile sweetheart’s unruffled attire, and clear skin, and steady eye and glossy hair. She was looking past him in that baffling, maddening way that angry women have. Some of Henri’s poise seemed to desert him in that moment. He appeared a shade less debonair as he received the precious bottle from the wine man’s hands. He made for Miss Fink’s desk and stood watching her while she checked his order. At the door he turned and looked over his shoulder at Miss Sweeney.

“Some time,” he said, deliberately, “when there’s no ladies around, I’ll tell you what I think she looks like.”

And the little glow of color in Miss Gussic Fink’s smooth cheek became a crimson flood that swept from brow to throat.

“Oh, well,” snickered Miss Sweeney, to hide her own discomfiture, “this is little Heiny’s first New Year’s Eve in the dining-room. Honest, I b’lieve he’s shocked. He don’t realize that celebratin’ New Year’s Eve is like eatin’ oranges. You got to let go your dignity t’ really enjoy ’em.”

Three times more did Henri enter and demand a bottle of the famous vintage, and each time he seemed a shade less buoyant. His elation diminished as his tips grew greater until, as he drew up at the bar at six o’clock, he seemed wrapped in impenetrable gloom.

“Them hawgs sousin’ yet?” shrilled Miss Sweeney. She and Miss Fink had climbed down from their high stools, and were preparing to leave. Henri nodded, drearily, and disappeared in the direction of the Pink Fountain Room.

Miss Fink walked back to her own desk in the corner near the dining-room door. She took her hat off the hook, and stood regarding it, thoughtfully. Then, with a little air of decision, she turned and walked swiftly down the passageway that separated dining-room from kitchen. Tillie, the scrub-woman, was down on her hands and knees in one corner of the passage. She was one of a small army of cleaners that had begun the work of clearing away the debris of the long night’s revel. Miss Fink lifted her neat skirts high as she tip-toed through the little soapy pool that followed in the wake of Tillie, the scrub-woman. She opened the swinging doors a cautious little crack and peered in. What she saw was not pretty. If the words sordid and bacchanalian had been part of Miss Fink’s vocabulary they would have risen to her lips then. The crowd had gone. The great room contained not more than half a dozen people. Confetti littered the floor. Here and there a napkin, crushed and bedraggled into an unrecognizable ball, lay under a table. From an overturned bottle the dregs were dripping drearily. The air was stale, stifling, poisonous.