llages to the skim-milk of "I told you so"; but
most of us prefer to remain in the cold courtyard of our mistress's
temple, snatching the scraps that fall from her divine table d'hote.
But some of us grow weary at last of the fruitless service. And then
there are two fates open to us. We can get a job driving a grocer's
wagon, or we can get swallowed up in the Vortex of Bohemia. The
latter sounds good; but the former really pans out better. For, when
the grocer pays us off we can rent a dress suit and--the capitalized
system of humor describes it best--Get Bohemia On the Run.

Miss Medora chose the Vortex and thereby furnishes us with our little
story.

Professor Angelini praised her sketches excessively. Once when
she had made a neat study of a horse-chestnut tree in the park he
declared she would become a second Rosa Bonheur. Again--a great
artist has his moods--he would say cruel and cutting things. For
example, Medora had spent an afternoon patiently sketching the statue
and the architecture at Columbus Circle. Tossing it aside with a
sneer, the professor informed her that Giotto had once drawn a
perfect circle with one sweep of his hand.

One day it rained, the weekly remittance from Harmony was overdue,
Medora had a headache, the professor had tried to borrow two dollars
from her, her art dealer had sent back all her water-colors unsold,
and--Mr. Binkley asked her out to dinner.

Mr. Binkley was the gay boy of the boarding-house. He was forty-nine,
and owned a fishstall in a downtown market. But after six o'clock he
wore an evening suit and whooped things up connected with the beaux
arts. The young men said he was an "Indian." He was supposed to be
an accomplished habitue of the inner circles of Bohemia. It was no
secret that he had once loaned $10 to a young man who had had a
drawing printed in _Puck_. Often has one thus obtained his entree
into the charmed circle, while the other obtained both his entree and
roast.

The other boarders enviously regarded Medora as she left at Mr.
Binkley's side at nine o'clock. She was as sweet as a cluster of
dried autumn grasses in her pale blue--oh--er--that very thin
stuff--in her pale blue Comstockized silk waist and box-pleated voile
skirt, with a soft pink glow on her thin cheeks and the tiniest bit
of rouge powder on her face, with her handkerchief and room key in
her brown walrus, pebble-grain hand-bag.

And Mr. Binkley looked imposing and dashing with his red fa