iver was ordering frozen poached eggs
and quails in aspic, Montague sat and gazed about him at the revelry,
and listened to the prattle of the little ex-sempstress from Rivington
Street.

His brother had "got her," he said, by buying a speaking part in a play
for her; and Montague recalled the orgies of which he had heard at the
bachelors' dinner, and divined that here he was at the source of the
stream from which they were fed. At the table next to them was a young
Hebrew, whom Toodles pointed out as the son and heir of a great
clothing manufacturer. He was "keeping" several girls, said she; and
the queenly creature who was his vis-a-vis was one of the chorus in
"The Maids of Mandalay." And a little way farther down the room was a
boy with the face of an angel and the air of a prince of the blood--he
had inherited a million and run away from school, and was making a name
for himself in the Tenderloin. The pretty little girl all in green who
was with him was Violet Pane, who was the artist's model in a new play
that had made a hit. She had had a full-page picture of herself in the
Sunday supplement of the "sporting paper" which was read here--so
Rosalie remarked.

"Why don't you ever do that for me?" she added, to Oliver.

"Perhaps I will," said he, with a laugh. "What does it cost?"

And when he learned that the honour could be purchased for only fifteen
hundred dollars, he said, "I'll do it, if you'll be good." And from
that time on the last trace of worriment vanished from the face and the
conversation of Rosalie.

As the champagne cocktails disappeared, she and Oliver became
confidential. Then Montague turned to Toodles, to learn more about how
the "second generation" was preying upon the women of the stage.

"A chorus-girl got from ten to twenty dollars a week," said Toodles;
and that was hardly enough to pay for her clothes. Her work was very
uncertain--she would spend weeks at rehearsal, and then if the play
failed, she would get nothing. It was a dog's life; and the keys of
freedom and opportunity were in the keeping of rich men, who haunted
the theatres and laid siege to the girls. They would send in notes to
them, or fling bouquets to them, with cards, or perhaps money, hidden
in them. There were millionaire artists and bohemians who kept a
standing order for seats in the front rows at opening performances;
they had accounts with florists and liverymen and confectioners, and
gave carte blanche to scores