very pretty," the other admitted.

"She came right out of the slums," said Oliver--"over on Rivington
Street. That don't happen very often."

"How did you come to know her?" asked his brother.

"Oh, I picked her out. She was in a chorus, then. I got her first
speaking part."

"Did you?" said the other, in surprise. "How did you do that?"

"Oh, a little money," was the reply. "Money will do most anything. And
I was in love with her--that's how I got her."

Montague said nothing, but sat in thought.

"We'll take her out to supper and make her happy," added Oliver, as the
curtain started up. "She's lonesome, I guess. You see, I promised Betty
I'd reform."

All through that scene and the next one Rosalie acted for them; she was
so full of verve and merriment that there was quite a stir in the
audience, and she got several rounds of applause. Then, when the play
was over, she extricated herself from the arms of the handsome young
soldier, and fled to her dressing-room, and when Oliver and Montague
arrived, she was half ready for the street.

They went up Broadway, and from a group of people coming out of another
stage-entrance a young girl came to join them--an airy little creature
with the face of a doll-baby, and a big hat with a purple feather on
top. This was "Toodles"--otherwise known as Helen Gwynne; and she took
Montague's arm, and they fell in behind Oliver and his companion.

Montague wondered what one said to a chorus-girl on the way to supper.
Afterward his brother told him that Toodles had been the wife of a
real-estate agent in a little town in Oklahoma, and had run away from
respectability and boredom with a travelling theatrical company. Now
she was tripping her part in the musical comedy which Montague had seen
at Mrs. Lane's; and incidentally swearing devotion to a handsome young
"wine-agent." She confided to Montague that she hoped the latter might
see her that evening--he needed to be made jealous.

"The Great White Way" was the name which people had given to this part
of Broadway; and at the head of it stood a huge hotel with flaming
lights, and gorgeous marble and bronze, and famous paintings upon the
walls and ceilings inside. At this hour every one of its many
dining-rooms was thronged with supper-parties, and the place rang with
laughter and the rattle of dishes, and the strains of several
orchestras which toiled heroically in the midst of the uproar. Here
they found a table, and while Ol