in his arms and kissed her.
At this psychological moment, Miss Pinkie Lexington emerged from the
boudoir. She shrieked at the sight.

"Marky," she cried. "You here with Flossie?"

Flossie proudly drew Zinsheimer far from the possibility of contact with
Miss Lexington, and proudly, almost haughtily, threw a defiant look at
her rival.

"My _husband_, Mr. Zinsheimer," she said.

Pinkie, with a scream, sank upon the big arm-chair and rocked herself to
and fro. "They are married," she moaned. "They are married."

"This morning, dear," smiled Flossie, coldly. "Thanks so much for your
congratulations."

"Married," repeated Pinkie, incredulously. "Married."

Zinsheimer advanced cautiously, and gave her several encouraging pats on
the shoulder.

"There, now, don't take on so," he said suavely. "There's other fish in
the sea, almost as good. It isn't half as bad as what they say in the
papers about the play. Listen to this," he added, unfolding a newspaper
and reading: "'A luridly ludicrous exhibition of maudlin mush,' Ach
Gott, what you think of that? 'A misguided author loaded a thirteen-inch
gun to the muzzle with idiotic words and reduced a large and
long-suffering audience to a peppered wreck. As an author, he's a joke.
As a murderer, he has the punch.' What funny fellows those critics are.
Here's what he says about Miss Farnum: 'The star--who, by the way, could
only be observed with the aid of a Lick telescope--was only a shooting
star. She made one faint, fantastic fizzle, then dropped without even a
hiss into the gloom of merciful oblivion. She was not even a meteor, and
only an innate sense of delicacy prevents our calling her a
devil-chaser.' No wonder the ladies love the _Sun_. Now, Pinkie,
listen--here's what he says about _you_."

"What?" shouted Pinkie. "Does that man dare--"

"He does. Listen: 'Among the cast appeared Miss Pinkie Lexington, with a
German accent on her Lex; a portly person of the oval type. She looked
like a turnip and acted the part artistically. Had this succulent
vegetable only burst from her scant foliage--but there, who roasts a
turnip?'"

"Oh, if he were only here now, where I could get my mitts on him,"
shouted the frantic Pinkie, springing to her feet. "Oh, let me go. I am
stifling. Thank heaven, the air outside at least is pure." And Pinkie
stormed from the room.

Flossie gazed after the retreating form of her former chum.

"Good exit, that," she observed. "Pinkie really ou