re than a hundred extra
pounds when in training for the heavy mother," he genially admonished a
very large lady of uncertain age--an age artfully covered with rouge,
powder, pencil, and lip-stick--who sank into the chair facing him with a
pathetic remnant of the former lissome grace which had got her as far as
being a dependable leading woman to any star who could go her a few
points better.

"Well, it's not from living on large salaries from you that I have put
on the pounds, Mr. Godfrey Vandeford!" she answered with a jovial laugh.

"Still eating half of old Wallace Kent's salary checks?" Mr. Vandeford
demanded. This seemed a lack of delicacy to Mr. Dennis Farraday, who
blushed with a color equal to that which rose in the cheeks of the old
beauty as her eyes snapped and she rose to her feet.

"As you know, he's feeding a squab chicken at Rector's to get her into
the broiler class. Good-day, sir," and she prepared to sweep out of the
office with all the fire she had used in many a queenly situation.

"Good old Bebe," Mr. Vandeford said, as he rose and put a restraining
arm around her broad waist. "I was just teasing to see what was
smouldering. How'll seventy-five a week, with costumes of frills and
powdered hair, do you? Thirty sides and the center of the stage four
times." "Sides," meaning single sheets of dialogue, puzzled Mr.
Farraday, but he made a mental note to seek enlightenment.

"I haven't had a part this winter, Godfrey," she laughed, and sobbed on
Mr. Vandeford's shoulder. "I'm living in a suitcase at Mrs. Pinkham's."

"Stop and get a twenty-five check from Dolph, and be on the job Monday
at the Barrett Theatre. Now run!" Mr. Vandeford gave Miss Bebe Herne's
two hundred pounds of avoirdupois a gentle shove toward the door, which
hint she took with an alacrity that had in it a great deal of left-over
grace.

"Supported a lot of big guns for years. Knows her business better than
any actress on Broadway," said Mr. Godfrey Vandeford to his horrified
confrere as the door closed behind the old beauty. "Picked up Wallace
Kent when he was a piffling, faded juvenile, and taught him to be a good
elderly support worth his hundred to any director. He's left her flat
for a pony in the Big Show, old hound!"

"Pretty raw," observed Mr. Dennis Farraday, with a great deal of emotion
very poorly concealed in his sympathetic voice.

"Oh, she's had her fling in life! Dopes a bit, but can be depended upon.
Next!"

T