A yellow scarf runs through his fingers as if it were melting. Thomas dabbing his brow. And now his mandolin in a hurry though the night, as they say, is young, though she is getting on. Hush, the strings tinkle. Pretty gal. Cigar-box music! She’d much prefer a pianola and scent in a sky-colored flask. Not that scarf, bright as butter. Not his hands, cool as dimes.