rehouse in a red wagon."

"Bacon, toasted on a green willow switch over red coals, ought to put
broiled lobsters out of business," said Vuyning. "And you say a horse
at the end of a thirty-foot rope can't pull a ten-inch stake out of
wet prairie? Well, good-bye, old man, if you must be off."

At one o'clock Vuyning had luncheon with Miss Allison by previous
arrangement.

For thirty minutes he babbled to her, unaccountably, of ranches,
horses, canons, cyclones, round-ups, Rocky Mountains and beans and
bacon. She looked at him with wondering and half-terrified eyes.

"I was going to propose again to-day," said Vuyning, cheerily, "but
I won't. I've worried you often enough. You know dad has a ranch in
Colorado. What's the good of staying here? Jumping jonquils! but it's
great out there. I'm going to start next Tuesday."

"No, you won't," said Miss Allison.

"What?" said Vuyning.

"Not alone," said Miss Allison, dropping a tear upon her salad. "What
do you think?"

"Betty!" exclaimed Vuyning, "what do you mean?

"I'll go too," said Miss Allison, forcibly. Vuyning filled her glass
with Apollinaris.

"Here's to Rowdy the Dude!" he gave--a toast mysterious.

"Don't know him," said Miss Allison; "but if he's your friend,
Jimmy--here goes!"

XXV

THE MEMENTO

Miss Lynnette D'Armande turned her back on Broadway. This was but tit
for tat, because Broadway had often done the same thing to Miss
D'Armande. Still, the "tats" seemed to have it, for the ex-leading
lady of the "Reaping the Whirlwind" company had everything to ask of
Broadway, while there was no vice-versa.

So Miss Lynnette D'Armande turned the back of her chair to her window
that overlooked Broadway, and sat down to stitch in time the
lisle-thread heel of a black silk stocking. The tumult and glitter of
the roaring Broadway beneath her window had no charm for her; what
she greatly desired was the stifling air of a dressing-room on that
fairyland street and the roar of an audience gathered in that
capricious quarter. In the meantime, those stockings must not be
neglected. Silk does wear out so, but--after all, isn't it just the
only goods there is?

The Hotel Thalia looks on Broadway as Marathon looks on the sea. It
stands like a gloomy cliff above the whirlpool where the tides of two
great thoroughfares clash. Here the player-bands gather at the end of
their wanderings, to loosen the buskin and dust the sock. Thick in
the streets around it