arm
when they authorized him to engage Devereux, Stewart, Astor and McGill
(McGill was the chief comedian, the Cosmetic King) for all of these were
high-priced people.

But by the time the question of costumes came up, they were shivering in
a perfect ague of apprehension. Was there no limit to the amount they
were to be asked to spend? This figure that Galbraith indicated as the
probable cost of having a first-class brigand in New York design the
costumes and a firm of pirates in the same neighborhood execute them,
was simply insane. New York managers might be boobs enough to submit to
such an extortion, but they, believe them, were not. Many of the
costumes could be bought, ready made, on State Street or Michigan
Avenue. Some of the fancy things could be executed by a competent
wardrobe mistress, if some one would give her the ideas. And ideas--one
could pick them up anywhere. Mrs. Goldsmith, now,--she was the wife of
the senior of the two owners--had splendid taste and would be glad to
put it at their service. There was no reason why she should not at once
take the sextette down-town and fit them out with their dresses.

Galbraith shrugged his shoulders, but made no further complaint. It was,
he admitted, as they had repeatedly pointed out, their own money. So a
rendezvous was made between Mrs. Goldsmith and the sextette for
Lessing's store on Michigan Avenue at three o'clock on an afternoon when
Galbraith was to be busy with the principals. He might manage to drop in
before they left to cast his eye over and approve the selection.

It was with some rather uncomfortable misgivings that Rose set out to
revisit a part of town so closely associated with the first year of her
married life. The particular shop wasn't, luckily, one that she had
patronized in that former incarnation. But it was in the same block with
a half dozen that were, and she hadn't been east of Clark Street since
the day Otto had driven her to the Polk Street Station.

The day was cold and blustery--a fact that she was grateful for, as it
gave her an excuse for wearing a thick white veil, which was almost as
good as a mask. It was with a rather breathless excitement that
persisted in feeling like guilt--her heart wouldn't have beaten any
faster, she believed, if she had just robbed a jewelry store and were
walking away with the swag in her pocket--that she debouched out of Van
Buren Street, around the corner of the Chicago Club, and into the
aven