rough the air by a storm. But the
floral kingdom was not responsible for that swirl of petalous
whiteness.

You saw the filmy, brief skirt of Miss Rosalie Ray as she made a
complete heels-over-head turn in her wistaria-entwined swing, far out
from the stage, high above the heads of the audience. You saw the
camera's inadequate representation of the graceful, strong kick, with
which she, at this exciting moment, sent flying, high and far, the
yellow silk garter that each evening spun from her agile limb and
descended upon the delighted audience below.

You saw, too, amid the black-clothed, mainly masculine patrons of
select vaudeville a hundred hands raised with the hope of staying the
flight of the brilliant aerial token.

Forty weeks of the best circuits this act had brought Miss Rosalie
Ray, for each of two years. She did other things during her twelve
minutes--a song and dance, imitations of two or three actors who are
but imitations of themselves, and a balancing feat with a step-ladder
and feather-duster; but when the blossom-decked swing was let down
from the flies, and Miss Rosalie sprang smiling into the seat, with
the golden circlet conspicuous in the place whence it was soon to
slide and become a soaring and coveted guerdon--then it was that the
audience rose in its seat as a single man--or presumably so--and
indorsed the specialty that made Miss Ray's name a favorite in the
booking-offices.

At the end of the two years Miss Ray suddenly announced to her dear
friend, Miss D'Armande, that she was going to spend the summer at an
antediluvian village on the north shore of Long Island, and that the
stage would see her no more.

Seventeen minutes after Miss Lynnette D'Armande had expressed her
wish to know the whereabouts of her old chum, there were sharp raps
at her door.

Doubt not that it was Rosalie Ray. At the shrill command to enter she
did so, with something of a tired flutter, and dropped a heavy
hand-bag on the floor. Upon my word, it was Rosalie, in a loose,
travel-stained automobileless coat, closely tied brown veil with
yard-long, flying ends, gray walking-suit and tan oxfords with
lavender overgaiters.

When she threw off her veil and hat, you saw a pretty enough face,
now flushed and disturbed by some unusual emotion, and restless,
large eyes with discontent marring their brightness. A heavy pile of
dull auburn hair, hastily put up, was escaping in crinkly, waving
strands and curling, small