gs an inexhaustible fund of dry humor. His lines seldom
provoked rough laughter; rather, silent chuckles.

Warrington's scowl abated none. In business, women were generally
nuisances; they were always taking impossible stands. He would find
some way out; he was determined not to submit to the imperious fancies
of an actress, however famous she might be.

"Sir, will you aid a lady in distress?" The voice was tremulous, but
as rich in tone as the diapason of an organ.

Warrington looked up from his cigar to behold a handsome young woman
standing at the side of his table. Her round, smooth cheeks were
flushed, and on the lower lids of her splendid dark eyes tears of
shame trembled and threatened to fall. Behind her stood a waiter, of
impassive countenance, who was adding up the figures on a check, his
movement full of suggestion.

The dramatist understood the situation at once. The young lady had
ordered dinner, and, having eaten it, found that she could not pay for
it. It was, to say the least, a trite situation. But what can a man do
when a pretty woman approaches him and pleads for assistance? So
Warrington rose.

"What may the trouble be?" he asked coldly, for all that he instantly
recognized her to be a person of breeding and refinement.

"I--I have lost my purse, and I have no money to pay the waiter." She
made this confession bravely and frankly.

He looked about. They were alone. She interpreted his glance rather
shrewdly.

"There were no women to appeal to. The waiter refused to accept my
word, and I really can't blame him. I had not even the money to send a
messenger home."

One of the trembling tears escaped and rolled down the blooming cheek.
Warrington surrendered. He saw that this was an exceptional case. The
girl was truly in distress. He knew his New York thoroughly; a man or
woman without funds is treated with the finished cruelty with which
the jovial Romans amused themselves with the Christians. Lack of money
in one person creates incredulity in another. A penniless person is
invariably a liar and a thief. Only one sort of person is pitied in
New York: the person who has more money than she or he can possibly
spend.

The girl fumbled in her hand-bag and produced a card, which she gave
to Warrington--"Katherine Challoner." He looked from the card to the
girl and then back to the card. Somehow, the name was not wholly
unfamiliar, but at that moment he could not place it.

"Waiter, let me see