“You probably have better jewels of your own,” carelessly replied Adoree; then she voiced a very tame and womanly oath as a marshmallow dripped into the flames.  “Pickles!  I spoiled that one.”

“But the Cabachon rubies are real.”

“Sure.  So is the ‘square toe’ who brings ’em and takes ’em away; so is the bond that covers ’em.  Lordy, but they are pretty!”

“Then the King didn’t give them to you?”

“My dear, I never saw a king—­outside of a pinochle deck.  If I lost one of those rubies the Maiden Lane Shylock who owns them would tear enough curled hair out of his beard to fill a mattress.  You never really believed that King stuff, did you?”

“Why, yes.”

“I had no idea it worked so well.”  Again Miss Demorest smiled crookedly.  “No wonder you didn’t want to go to the Waldorf with me; I wonder you consented to come here.”

“Your advance work is great—­”

“I knew the public swallowed it; but I supposed the profession knew press stuff when they saw it.  I sang and danced for ten years in this country and never got better time than the schutzen parks and air-domes—­seven shows a day and a change of act each week.  I was Agnes Smith then.  Somehow I got the price of a ticket to England, and I figured the music-halls would rave over a good kid imitation; but, bless you, I starved!  I was closed the first place I played—­got the hook.  I ate Nabiscos till I got another date, then I pulled the air-dome stuff that had scored in Little Rock and Michigan City, and it got by somehow.  My mother was a Canuck, so I knew some French, and eventually I reached the Continent.  There I met the Old Nick.  You may think the devil is a tall, dark man with the ace of spades on his chin and a figure-six tail—­ that’s what he looks like on the ham-cans; but in reality he’s a little fat, bald man with a tenor voice, and he eats cloves.  His name is Aubrey Lane, and he can’t stand hot weather.  Never heard of him, eh?  Well, neither had anybody else until I met him.  He was in Paris selling patent garters at the time.  He saw me work at a cabaret and told me I was good, but not good enough.  I’d known that for years, so he didn’t hurt my feelings.  He confessed that he was tired of working and intended to have me make a lot of money for him, but warned me that he had expensive tastes and I’d have to pay well for the privilege.  He was right; I did.  But here I am in electric lights on Broadway while he is exercising a wheeled chair at Atlantic City.”  “He’s your manager?”

“He is that very little thing.  He told me I could sing until my back ached and never get anywhere because I lacked brains.  Then he offered to make me a star if I’d allow him to hitch his chariot to me—­on a share of the gross.  There was one trifling sacrifice I had to make in the nature of my personal reputation—­so he told me.  He said I’d have to be the best or else the worst actress in the world in order