But the mammas and the aunties may feel perfectly safe for another reason.  The earnest, ambitious young gentlewoman you are watching over is not often attractive to the “masher.”  The clever and promising artist, Miss G——­, is not his style.  He is not looking for brains, “don’t yer know.”  He fancies No. 3 in the second row, she with the flashing eyes and teeth; or No. 7 in the front row, that has the cutest kick in the whole crowd.  And his cheap and common letters of fulsome compliment and invitation go to her accordingly.  But the daring little free lance who accepts these attentions pays a high price for the bit of supper that is followed by gross impertinences.  One would think that the democratic twenty-five-cent oyster stew, and respect therewith, would taste better than the small bird and the small bottle with insult as a demi-tasse.  Then, too, she loses caste at once; for it is not enough that a girl should not do evil:  she must also avoid the appearance of evil.  She will be judged by the character of her companions, and a few half-hearted denials, a shrug of the shoulders, a discreetly suppressed smile, will place her among the list of his “mashes.”  Oh, hideous word!

Of course, now and again, at long, long intervals, a man really falls in love with a woman whom he has seen only upon the stage; but no “masher” proceedings are taken in such cases.  On the other hand, very determined efforts are made to locate the actress’s family or friends, and through them to be properly presented.

Believing, as I did, that every girl had a perfect right to humiliate a “masher” to the extent of her ability, I once went, it’s hard to admit it, but really I did go, too far in reprisal.  Well, at all events, I was made to feel rather ashamed of myself.  We were presenting “Alixe” at Mr. Daly’s Broadway Theatre, just after the fire, and the would-be lady-killer was abroad in the land and unusually active.  There was seldom a night that some one was not laughing contemptuously or frowning fiercely over a “drop letter,” as we called them.  One evening my box held a most inflammable communication.  It was not written upon club paper, nor had it any private monogram; in fact, it was on legal cap.  The hand was large, round, and laboriously distinct.  The i’s were dotted, the t’s crossed with painful precision, while toward capitals and punctuation marks the writer showed more generosity than understanding.  His sentiment and romance were of the old-time rural type, and I am certain he longed to quote, “The rose is red, the violet’s blue.”  I might have been a little touched but for the signature.  I loathed the faintest hint of anonymity, and simply could not bring myself to believe that any man really and truly walked up and down the earth bearing the name of Mr. A. Fix.  Yet that was the signature appended to the long, rapturous love-letter.  I gave it a pitch into the waste-basket and dressed for the play.  Of course I spoke of the name,