Medora took heart, a cheap hall bedroom and two art lessons a week from Professor Angelini, a retired barber who had studied his profession in a Harlem dancing academy.  There was no one to set her right, for here in the big city they do it unto all of us.  How many of us are badly shaved daily and taught the two-step imperfectly by ex-pupils of Bastien Le Page and Gerome?  The most pathetic sight in New York—­except the manners of the rush-hour crowds—­is the dreary march of the hopeless army of Mediocrity.  Here Art is no benignant goddess, but a Circe who turns her wooers into mewing Toms and Tabbies who linger about the doorsteps of her abode, unmindful of the flying brickbats and boot-jacks of the critics.  Some of us creep back to our native villages to the skim-milk of “I told you so”; but most of us prefer to remain in the cold courtyard of our mistress’s temple, snatching the scraps that fall from her divine table d’hote.  But some of us grow weary at last of the fruitless service.  And then there are two fates open to us.  We can get a job driving a grocer’s wagon, or we can get swallowed up in the Vortex of Bohemia.  The latter sounds good; but the former really pans out better.  For, when the grocer pays us off we can rent a dress suit and—­the capitalized system of humor describes it best—­Get Bohemia On the Run.

Miss Medora chose the Vortex and thereby furnishes us with our little story.

Professor Angelini praised her sketches excessively.  Once when she had made a neat study of a horse-chestnut tree in the park he declared she would become a second Rosa Bonheur.  Again—­a great artist has his moods—­he would say cruel and cutting things.  For example, Medora had spent an afternoon patiently sketching the statue and the architecture at Columbus Circle.  Tossing it aside with a sneer, the professor informed her that Giotto had once drawn a perfect circle with one sweep of his hand.

One day it rained, the weekly remittance from Harmony was overdue, Medora had a headache, the professor had tried to borrow two dollars from her, her art dealer had sent back all her water-colors unsold, and—­Mr. Binkley asked her out to dinner.

Mr. Binkley was the gay boy of the boarding-house.  He was forty-nine, and owned a fishstall in a downtown market.  But after six o’clock he wore an evening suit and whooped things up connected with the beaux arts.  The young men said he was an “Indian.”  He was supposed to be an accomplished habitue of the inner circles of Bohemia.  It was no secret that he had once loaned $10 to a young man who had had a drawing printed in Puck.  Often has one thus obtained his entree into the charmed circle, while the other obtained both his entree and roast.

The other boarders enviously regarded Medora as she left at Mr. Binkley’s side at nine o’clock.  She was as sweet as a cluster of dried autumn grasses in her pale blue—­oh—­er—­that very thin stuff—­in her pale blue Comstockized silk waist and box-pleated voile skirt, with a soft pink glow on her thin cheeks and the tiniest bit of rouge powder on her face, with her handkerchief and room key in her brown walrus, pebble-grain hand-bag.