e. What did she care now? She had the whip hand. The managers
had neglected and despised her long enough; they could do the running
after contracts now.

Meantime she drained the cup of pleasure to the very dregs. It was one
continual round of gaiety. She seemed insatiable. With Elfie St. Clair
and others, she formed an intimate circle of friends, a little coterie
of the swiftest men and women in town, and entertained them lavishly,
spending wilfully, recklessly. Her extravagances were soon the talk of
New York. A thousand dollars for a single midnight supper, $700 for a
new gown, $200 for a hat were as nothing. Once more she reigned as the
belle of Broadway, Almost each night, after the play, she was the
centre of an admiring throng in the pleasure resorts, and none ventured
to dispute the claim that she was the prettiest as well as the
best-dressed woman in town. Dressmakers, attracted by her matchless
figure and eager to profit by her vogue, turned out for her their
latest creations; milliners designed for her hats that were the despair
of every other woman. She had her carriages, her automobiles, and her
saddle horse, her town apartment and her bungalow by the sea, and for a
time set a pace so swift that no other woman of her acquaintance could
keep up with her. All this cost money, and a lot of it, but Brockton
gave her free rein. The broker did not care. He smiled indulgently and
footed her enormous bills without protest. On the contrary, he was
delighted. Never had she proved so fascinating a companion or attracted
so much attention in public. He was getting plenty of other people's
money in the Wall Street game, so why should he care if his mistress
spent a few thousands a year more or less? It amused him to see her
plunging, as he put it. Besides, he was proud of his protegee. It
flattered him when they entered a theatre or restaurant, Laura wearing
her $200 picture hat, to hear people whisper: "That's Brockton's girl.
Isn't she stunning?"

She drank more champagne than was good for her, and when this happened,
Brockton himself would chide her. But she only laughed at him, and,
disregarding his rebuke, turned to the waiter and imperiously ordered
another bottle. Not that she liked the golden, hissing stuff. It made
her sick and gave her a bad headache the next morning, but still she
must drink it, drink it unceasingly. It was the only way she could
deaden that terrible, accusing conscience which persistently d