“Perfect!” he shouted, as he always did when he was excited. “You were made for it—I mean it was made for you. Such a model, oy!” An idea struck him. “Listen, Babe, listen! Vy you don’t come back to work for me? Look, you could get yourself some nice clothes reasonable. Understand? Look, I’ll pay you twenty-five dollars a week.”

Babe knew she had him going.

“Well, I don’t know, Goldie,” she said slowly. “Twenty-five ain’t much and——”

“I’ll make it thirty, for you, Babe. Thirty dollars, understand? For nobody else I vouldn’t do it.”

Babe knew that was his limit. He wouldn’t go higher for Gloria Swanson.

“All right,” said Babe. “Thirty it is.”

Goldie snatched up her hand and led the way back to his private office.

“I knew you vould do it for Goldie,” he said. “And besides, listen—the buyers vill be comin’ in town next veek. Babe, you vill make yourself a lot of gelt, understand? And look, what nice garments you can get here. You like nice things, Babe, I know you. You do right by Goldie, and he does right by you!”

“What do you mean?” asked Babe, with a laugh. “That sounds like a proposition.”

“Ah, Babe, you know what I mean,” he said reproachfully. “I only mean you good. You vouldn’t vant a old feller like me.”

“You never can tell,” laughed Babe. “You might have some fireworks left.”

“Vell,” said Goldie with a grin, “maybe a couple of skyrockets yet.”

They both laughed. They understood each other, those two. He admired Babe because she could get the best of him, even more than for her beauty.

At noon, Babe called up the Bearcat at his hotel. He was waiting around hoping she would call, as she had promised.

“I’m working,” she told him, “and I got till one o’clock for lunch. I’d like to have it with you, if you can come right down.”

“You bet I can,” said the Bearcat, eagerly.

“Well, meet me in front of 200 West 36th Street, honey, as soon as you can.”

“I’ll be right down,” said the Bearcat. “I’ll grab a cab.”

He hung up and almost ran into the street, where he hailed a cab and jumped in.

Babe turned from the phone and ran her eye over the lines and lines of models hanging on racks. She could use a couple of them, she thought. Then she put on her hat and went out to the elevator.

“I didn’t know you was workin’,” said the Bearcat, as he faced Babe across the luncheon table.

“Well, I am, you see,” she said. “I’m a model, and Goldstein, that’s the guy I work for, says I’m one of the best in the business.”

“You ain’t one of these here artist models?” the Bearcat asked suspiciously.

Babe laughed.