nce,
of scorn, of conventionality, a certain carelessness which mark them as
very different from the throng you have just left on Broadway. They
puzzle you, and set you to conjecturing who they are and what they are,
and you find yourself weaving a romance about nearly every man or woman
you meet.

That long-haired, queerly dressed young man, with a parcel under his arm,
who passed you just then, is an artist, and his home is in the attic of
that tall house from which you saw him pass out. It is a cheerless
place, indeed, and hardly the home for a devotee of the Muse; but the
artist is a philosopher, and he flatters himself that if the world has
not given him a share of its good things, it has at least freed him from
its restraints, and so long as he has the necessaries of life and a lot
of jolly good fellows to smoke and drink and chat with him in that lofty
dwelling place of his, he is content to take life as he finds it.

If you look up to the second floor, you may see a pretty, but not over
fresh looking young woman, gazing down into the street. She meets your
glance with composure, and with an expression which is a half invitation
to "come up." She is used to looking at men, and to having them look at
her, and she is not averse to their admiration. Her dress is a little
flashy, and the traces of rouge are rather too strong on her face, but it
is not a bad face. You may see her to-night at the --- Theatre, where
she is the favorite. Not much of an actress, really, but very clever at
winning over the dramatic critics of the great dailies who are but men,
and not proof against feminine arts. This is her home, and an honest
home, too. To be sure it would be better had she a mother or a brother,
or husband--some recognized protector, who could save her from the
"misfortune of living alone;" but this is Bleecker street, and she may
live here according to her own fancy, "and no questions asked."

On the floor above her dwells Betty Mulligan, a pretty little butterfly
well known to the lovers of the ballet as Mademoiselle Alexandrine. No
one pretends to know her history. She pays her room rent, has hosts of
friends, but beyond this no one knows anything. Surmises there are by
the score, and people wonder how mademoiselle can live so well on her
little salary; but no charges are made. People shrug their shoulders,
and hint that ballet girls have resources unknown to the uninitiated.
The rule here is that ever