st's
models, who had failed to live up to the part. At any rate, the sight of
these young gods of leisure, the contemplation of the stolid butler and
plush footmen in the background never failed to make Lise's heart beat
faster.

On the marble of the bureau amidst a litter of toilet articles, and
bought by Lise for a quarter at the Bagatelle bargain counter, was an
oval photograph frame from which the silver wash had begun to rub off,
and the band of purple velvet inside the metal had whitened. The frame
always contained the current object of Lise's affections, though the
exhibits--as Janet said--were subject to change without notice. The
Adonis who now reigned had black hair cut in the prevailing Hampton
fashion, very long in front and hanging down over his eyes like a
Scottish terrier's; very long behind, too, but ending suddenly, shaved in
a careful curve at the neck and around the ears. It had almost the
appearance of a Japanese wig. The manly beauty of Mr. Max Wylie was of
the lantern-jawed order, and in his photograph he conveyed the astonished
and pained air of one who has been suddenly seized by an invisible
officer of the law from behind. This effect, one presently perceived, was
due to the high, stiff collar, the "Torture Brand," Janet called it, when
she and her sister were engaged in one of their frequent controversies
about life in general: the obvious retort to this remark, which Lise
never failed to make, was that Janet could boast of no beaux at all.

It is only fair to add that the photograph scarcely did Mr. Wylie
justice. In real life he did not wear the collar, he was free and easy in
his manners, sure of his powers of conquest. As Lise observed, he had
made a home-run with her at Slattery's Riverside Park. "Sadie Hartmann
was sure sore when I tangoed off with him," she would observe
reminiscently....

It was Lise's habit to slight her morning toilet, to linger until the
last minute in bed, which she left in reluctant haste to stand before the
bureau frantically combing out kinks of the brown hair falling over her
shoulders before jamming it down across her forehead in the latest mode.
Thus occupied, she revealed a certain petulant beauty. Like the majority
of shop-girls, she was small, but her figure was good, her skin white;
her discontented mouth gave her the touch of piquancy apt to play havoc
with the work of the world. In winter breakfast was eaten by the light of
a rococo metal lamp set in