“You’re as old-fashioned as a Sultan. In Turkey in the old days Sultans made their wives put on veils when they went out, and wrap up from top to toe.”

“Here,” said Simple, “women take off practically everything when they go out. Joyce is liable to catch her death of cold unless I buy her a great big corsarge to cover up her chest. How many dozen orchids do you reckon you get for Ten Dollars?”

“About one,” I said. “Not one dozen, but one orchid.”

“I am going to get her carnations,” said Simple.

“If you do, Joyce will never speak to you again. An orchid is the flower for a formal.”

“Are orchids made of gold?”

“Of course not.”

“Neither am I,” said Simple.

Fancy Free

Fancy Free

“BEFORE spring is over, if I can’t get no spring clothes, at least I would like to have me a real good mess of greens.”

Simple stood at the bar and uttered this statement as though it were of great importance. Then he shook his head with a gesture of despair.

“But there is no place in New York to pick greens. Maybe that is why womens do not cook them much in Big Cities. Not even a dandelion do I see growing in Morningside Park. If there was, it wouldn’t stay there long because some Negro would pull it and eat it.”

“Greens are good,” I said.

“Don’t talk!” cried Simple. “All boiled down with a side of pork, delicious! Greens make my mouth water. I have eaten so many in my life until I could write a book on greenology—and I still would like to eat that many more. What I wouldn’t give right now for a good old iron pot full! Mustard greens, collard greens, turnip greens, dandelions, dock. Beet-tops, lamb’s tongue, pepper grass, sheepcress, also poke. Good old mixed greens! Spinach or chard, refined greens! Any kind of fresh greens. I wonder why somebody don’t open a restaurant for nothing but greens? I should think that would go right good up North.”

“I hear you always talking about going into business,” I said. “Why don’t you open one?”

“Where would I get the greens?” asked Simple. “They don’t grow around here. Wild mustard has never been known to be found sprouting on Lenox Avenue. And was I to see poke in New York, I would swear it were a miracle. Besides, even if they did grow here, who would pick ’em? That is woman’s work, but I would not trust it to Joyce. She might not know greens from poison weeds, nor pepper grass from bridal mist. Joyce were not raised on dandelions like me. I don’t expect she would be caught with a basket picking greens. Joyce is cultural.”

“She likes greens, though, doesn’t she?”