e Fake, the eternal, irrepressible Sham; glib, nimble,
ubiquitous, tricked out in all the paraphernalia of imposture, an
endless defile of charlatans that passed interminably before the gaze of
the city, marshalled by "lady presidents," exploited by clubs of women,
by literary societies, reading circles, and culture organisations. The
attention the Fake received, the time devoted to it, the money which it
absorbed, were incredible. It was all one that impostor after impostor
was exposed; it was all one that the clubs, the circles, the societies
were proved beyond doubt to have been swindled. The more the Philistine
press of the city railed and guyed, the more the women rallied to
the defence of their protege of the hour. That their favourite was
persecuted, was to them a veritable rapture. Promptly they invested the
apostle of culture with the glamour of a martyr.

The fakirs worked the community as shell-game tricksters work a county
fair, departing with bursting pocket-books, passing on the word to the
next in line, assured that the place was not worked out, knowing well
that there was enough for all.

More frequently the public of the city, unable to think of more than one
thing at one time, prostrated itself at the feet of a single apostle,
but at other moments, such as the present, when a Flower Festival or a
Million-Dollar Fair aroused enthusiasm in all quarters, the occasion
was one of gala for the entire Fake. The decayed professors, virtuosi,
litterateurs, and artists thronged to the place en masse. Their clamour
filled all the air. On every hand one heard the scraping of violins,
the tinkling of mandolins, the suave accents of "art talks," the
incoherencies of poets, the declamation of elocutionists, the
inarticulate wanderings of the Japanese, the confused mutterings of the
Cherokee, the guttural bellowing of the German university professor, all
in the name of the Million-Dollar Fair. Money to the extent of hundreds
of thousands was set in motion.

Mrs. Cedarquist was busy from morning until night. One after another,
she was introduced to newly arrived fakirs. To each poet, to each
litterateur, to each professor she addressed the same question:

"How long have you known you had this power?"

She spent her days in one quiver of excitement and jubilation. She
was "in the movement." The people of the city were awakening to a
Realisation of the Beautiful, to a sense of the higher needs of life.
This was Art,