ty
that attaches to your name."

Mary Burton's lovely face grew paler, and, fearing interruption, the man
rushed on. "I don't mean in the way the Sunday editor suggested. I mean
the stage. I eke out my revenue in Park row with some press-agent work,
and I happen to know what I'm talking about. Mary Burton is one of the
most advertised names in the city. To a manager it would be worth
whatever it cost."

"But"--her voice faltered--"but I can't act. I've been in amateur things
of course, but--"

"You don't have to know how to act." His voice rose ironically. "Few
stars do--besides, I'm talking about vaudeville. The highest-priced
vaudeville headliner in America boasts that she can neither act, sing
nor dance."

He paused for a moment, then, as she said nothing, proceeded gravely:
"Think that over, Miss Burton. New York pays for names and what New York
pays for the rest of the country accepts--at more than face value. I can
see to it that your contract is carefully drawn--and you needn't fear
the usual unpleasant features of visiting managers. They will come to
you. It's not what you would prefer--but if other things fail telephone
me."

It was a small restaurant, very plain but neat, and at this hour of the
late afternoon the man from Park row and the woman who had once been the
toast of capitals from the Irish Sea to Suez sat across one of its small
tables undisturbed by other patrons. Only a waiter stood across the room
and a cat rubbed against his ankles.

In her mourning she made a wonderfully appealing picture, as she gazed
down at her plate, even though her lowered lashes half-masked the
mismated beauty of her eyes. Suffering had laid a veil of transparent
pallor over the brilliant vividness of her coloring--a coloring that her
lover had once likened to the gorgeousness of the Mosque of Omar. Yet,
by this, her beauty was rather enhanced than lessened as though Nature,
the master-painter, had retouched a picture already wondrous, softening
its colors with a tone more spiritual. Both face and figure had lost
something of roundness and the hand that lay on the table was slenderer
of finger and wrist, but Mary Burton had not been robbed of her beauty,
and when she spoke, very low and hesitantly, one realized that out of
her voice no single golden note was missing. She might still be
truthfully advertised as one of the world's rare beauties.

"I know," she said softly, "that you make that suggestion in true
kin