a series of small
inlaid writing-desks, generously equipped for an avidious public to whom
the crest-embossed stationery of a four-dollar-a-day-up hotel suggests
long-forgotten friends back home.

Just off the lobby is the Oriental room, thick with arabesque hangings
and incense and distinguished by the famous pair of Chinese famille rose
mandarin jars, fifty-three inches high and enameled with Hoho birds and
flowers. In careful contrast the adjoining room, a Colonial parlor
paneled in black walnut and designed by a notorious architect, is ten
degrees lower in temperature and lighted by large rectangular windows,
through whose leaded panes a checkered patch of sunshine filters across
the floor for half an hour each forenoon.

Then there is the manicure parlor, done in white tile, and stationary
wash-stands by the Herman Casky Hygienic Company, Eighth Avenue.

The oracle of this particular Delphi was Miss Gertrude Sprunt,
white-shirtwaisted, smooth-haired, and cool-fingered. Miss Sprunt could
tell, almost as soon as you stepped out of the elevator opposite the
parlors, the shortest cut to your hand and heart; she could glance at a
pair of cuffs and give the finger-nails a correspondingly high or
domestic finish, and could cater to the manicurial whims of Fifth Avenue
and Four Corners alike. After one digital treat at her clever hands you
enlisted as one of Miss Sprunt's regulars.

This fact was not lost upon her sister worker, Miss Ethyl Mooney. "Say,
Gertie"--Miss Mooney tied a perky little apron about her trim waist and
patted a bow into place--"is there ever a mornin' that you ain't booked
clear through the day?"

Miss Sprunt hung her flat sailor hat and blue jacket behind the door,
placed her hands on her hips, glanced down the length of her svelte
figure, yawned, and patted her mouth with her hand.

"Not so you could notice it," she replied, in gapey tones. "I'm booked
from nine to quitting just six days of the week; and, believe me, it's
not like taking the rest cure."

"I guess if I was a jollier like you, Gert, I'd have a waitin'-list,
too, I wish I could get on to your system."

"Maybe I give tradin'-stamps," observed Miss Sprunt, flippantly.

"You give 'em some sort of laughing-gas; but me, I'm of a retiring
disposition, and I never could force myself on nobody."

Miss Gertrude flecked at herself with a whisk-broom.

"Don't feel bad about it, Ethyl; just keep on trying."

Miss Ethyl flushed angri