“This girl impersonated you successfully to the lower manufacturing world of New York for two seasons.  I doubt if it could have been put across anywhere else in the world except in this city, which pays you so magnificently and believes of you what it likes.  Then you went over to the Metropolitan, stopped living in hotels, took this apartment, and began to know people.  Stein discontinued his pantomime at the right moment, withdrew his patronage.  Ruby, of course, did not go back to shirtwaists.  A business friend of Stein’s took her over, and she dropped out of sight.  Last winter, one cold, snowy night, I saw her once again.  She was going into a saloon hotel with a tough-looking young fellow.  She had been drinking, she was shabby, and her blue shoes left stains in the slush.  But she still looked amazingly, convincingly like a battered, hardened Kitty Ayrshire.  As I saw her going up the brass-edged stairs, I said to myself—­”

“Never mind that.”  Kitty rose quickly, took an impatient step to the hearth, and thrust one shining porcelain slipper out to the fire.  “The girl doesn’t interest me.  There is nothing I can do about her, and of course she never looked like me at all.  But what did Stein do without me?”

“Stein?  Oh, he chose a new role.  He married with great magnificence—­married a Miss Mandelbaum, a California heiress.  Her people have a line of department stores along the Pacific Coast.  The Steins now inhabit a great house on Fifth Avenue that used to belong to people of a very different sort.  To old New-Yorkers, it’s an historic house.”

Kitty laughed, and sat down on the end of her couch nearest her guest; sat upright, without cushions.

“I imagine I know more about that house than you do.  Let me tell you how I made the sequel to your story.

“It has to do with Peppo Amoretti.  You may remember that I brought Peppo to this country, and brought him in, too, the year the war broke out, when it wasn’t easy to get boys who hadn’t done military service out of Italy.  I had taken him to Munich to have some singing lessons.  After the war came on we had to get from Munich to Naples in order to sail at all.  We were told that we could take only hand luggage on the railways, but I took nine trunks and Peppo.  I dressed Peppo in knickerbockers, made him brush his curls down over his ears like doughnuts, and carry a little violin-case.  It took us eleven days to reach Naples.  I got my trunks through purely by personal persuasion.  Once at Naples, I had a frightful time getting Peppo on the boat.  I declared him as hand-luggage; he was so travel-worn and so crushed by his absurd appearance that he did not look like much else.  One inspector had a sense of humour, and passed him at that, but the other was inflexible.  I had to be very dramatic.  Peppo was frightened, and there is no fight in him, anyhow.

“’Per me tutto e indifferente, Signorina,’ he kept whimpering.  ’Why should I go without it?  I have lost it.’