For the room, Dulcie paid two dollars per week.  On week-days her breakfast cost ten cents; she made coffee and cooked an egg over the gaslight while she was dressing.  On Sunday mornings she feasted royally on veal chops and pineapple fritters at “Billy’s” restaurant, at a cost of twenty-five cents—­and tipped the waitress ten cents.  New York presents so many temptations for one to run into extravagance.  She had her lunches in the department-store restaurant at a cost of sixty cents for the week; dinners were $1.05.  The evening papers—­show me a New Yorker going without his daily paper!—­came to six cents; and two Sunday papers—­one for the personal column and the other to read—­were ten cents.  The total amounts to $4.76.  Now, one has to buy clothes, and—­

I give it up.  I hear of wonderful bargains in fabrics, and of miracles performed with needle and thread; but I am in doubt.  I hold my pen poised in vain when I would add to Dulcie’s life some of those joys that belong to woman by virtue of all the unwritten, sacred, natural, inactive ordinances of the equity of heaven.  Twice she had been to Coney Island and had ridden the hobby-horses.  ’Tis a weary thing to count your pleasures by summers instead of by hours.

Piggy needs but a word.  When the girls named him, an undeserving stigma was cast upon the noble family of swine.  The words-of-three-letters lesson in the old blue spelling book begins with Piggy’s biography.  He was fat; he had the soul of a rat, the habits of a bat, and the magnanimity of a cat. . .  He wore expensive clothes; and was a connoisseur in starvation.  He could look at a shop-girl and tell you to an hour how long it had been since she had eaten anything more nourishing than marshmallows and tea.  He hung about the shopping districts, and prowled around in department stores with his invitations to dinner.  Men who escort dogs upon the streets at the end of a string look down upon him.  He is a type; I can dwell upon him no longer; my pen is not the kind intended for him; I am no carpenter.

At ten minutes to seven Dulcie was ready.  She looked at herself in the wrinkly mirror.  The reflection was satisfactory.  The dark blue dress, fitting without a wrinkle, the hat with its jaunty black feather, the but-slightly-soiled gloves—­all representing self-denial, even of food itself—­were vastly becoming.

Dulcie forgot everything else for a moment except that she was beautiful, and that life was about to lift a corner of its mysterious veil for her to observe its wonders.  No gentleman had ever asked her out before.  Now she was going for a brief moment into the glitter and exalted show.

The girls said that Piggy was a “spender.”  There would be a grand dinner, and music, and splendidly dressed ladies to look at, and things to eat that strangely twisted the girls’ jaws when they tried to tell about them.  No doubt she would be asked out again.  There was a blue pongee suit in a window that she knew—­by saving twenty cents a week instead of ten, in—­let’s see—­Oh, it would run into years!  But there was a second-hand store in Seventh Avenue where—­