celled view of Park").

C--The morning air wasn't perfumed for purposes of breathing deep, being
New York morning air, richly laden with the smell of warm asphalt,
smoke, gas, and, when the wind was right, the glue factory on the Jersey
shore across the river.

D--She didn't pluck a rose, carolling, because even if, by some magic
Burbankian process, Jack's bean-stalk had been made rose-bearing it
would have been hard put to it to reach this skyscraper home.

E--If she had flung it, it probably would have ended its eleven-story
flight in the hand cart of Messinger's butcher boy, who usually made
his first Fifty-sixth Street delivery at about that time.

F--The white rose would not have been jewelled and sparkling with the
dews of dawn, anyway, as at Harrietta's rising hour (between 10.30 and
11.30 A. M.) the New York City dews, if any, have left for the day.

Spartans who rise regularly at the chaste hour of seven will now regard
Harrietta with disapproval. These should be told that Harrietta never
got to bed before twelve-thirty nor to sleep before two-thirty, which,
on an eight-hour sleep count, should even things up somewhat in their
minds. They must know, too, that in one corner of her white-and-blue
bathroom reposed a pair of wooden dumb-bells, their ankles neatly
crossed. She used them daily. Also she bathed, massaged, exercised, took
facial and electric treatments; worked like a slave; lived like an
athlete in training in order to preserve her hair, skin, teeth, and
figure; almost never ate what she wanted nor as much as she liked.

That earlier lady of the closed casement and the white rose probably
never even heard of a dentifrice or a cold shower.

The result of Harrietta's rigours was that now, at thirty-seven, she
could pass for twenty-seven on Fifth Avenue at five o'clock (flesh-pink,
single-mesh face veil); twenty-five at a small dinner (rose-coloured
shades over the candles), and twenty-two, easily, behind the amber
footlights.

You will have guessed that Harrietta, the Heroine, is none other than
Harrietta Fuller, deftest of comediennes, whom you have seen in one or
all of those slim little plays in which she has made a name but no money
to speak of, being handicapped for the American stage by her
intelligence and her humour sense, and, as she would tell you, by her
very name itself.

"Harrietta Fuller! Don't you see what I mean?" she would say. "In the
first place, it's hard to remember. And it