reader, wouldst take one penny-in-the-slot peep into
the fair land of Bohemia? Then look; and when you think you have
seen it you have not. And it is neither thimbleriggery nor
astigmatism.

The walls of the Cafe Andre were covered with original sketches by
the artists who furnished much of the color and sound of the place.
Fair woman furnished the theme for the bulk of the drawings. When
you say "sirens and siphons" you come near to estimating the
alliterative atmosphere of Andre's.

First, I want you to meet my friend, Miss Adrian. Miss Tooker and
Mrs. Pothunter you already know. While she tucks in the fingers of
her elbow gloves you shall have her daguerreotype. So faint and
uncertain shall the portrait be:

Age, somewhere between twenty-seven and highneck evening dresses.
Camaraderie in large bunches--whatever the fearful word may mean.
Habitat--anywhere from Seattle to Terra del Fuego. Temperament
uncharted--she let Reeves squeeze her hand after he recited one of
his poems; but she counted the change after sending him out with a
dollar to buy some pickled pig's feet. Deportment 75 out of a
possible 100. Morals 100.

Mary was one of the princesses of Bohemia. In the first place, it
was a royal and a daring thing to have been named Mary. There are
twenty Fifines and Heloises to one Mary in the Country of Elusion.

Now her gloves are tucked in. Miss Tooker has assumed a June poster
pose; Mrs. Pothunter has bitten her lips to make the red show;
Reeves has several times felt his coat to make sure that his latest
poem is in the pocket. (It had been neatly typewritten; but he has
copied it on the backs of letters with a pencil.) Kappelman is
underhandedly watching the clock. It is ten minutes to nine. When
the hour comes it is to remind him of a story. Synopsis: A French
girl says to her suitor: "Did you ask my father for my hand at nine
o'clock this morning, as you said you would?" "I did not," he.
replies. "At nine o'clock I was fighting a duel with swords in the
Bois de Boulogne." "Coward!" she hisses.

The dinner was ordered. You know how the Bohemian feast of reason
keeps up with the courses. Humor with the oysters; wit with the
soup; repartee with the entree; brag with the roast; knocks for
Whistler and Kipling with the salad; songs with the coffee; the
slapsticks with the cordials.

Between Miss Adrian's eyebrows was the pucker that shows the intense
strain it requires to be at ease in Bohemia. Pat must c