Proctor’s was a show-place, built upon the site of a former resort the fame of which had been nation-wide; but the crowds that frequented it now were of a different type to those that had gathered in “the old Proctor’s.”  Nowadays the customers were largely visitors to the city in whom the spirit of Bohemianism was entirely lacking.  The new resort was too splendid for the old-time atmosphere.  Magnificent panels done by a gifted artist were set into the walls and distant ceiling; an elaborate marble stairway rose from the street-level to the hall itself, but instead of extending an air of cheerful welcome it seemed to yawn hungrily for the occupants of the place, rudely inviting them to descend when they had sufficiently admired the costly furnishings.  A superb orchestra was playing, hordes of waiters hovered about the serving-tables and sped noiselessly along the carpeted spaces between the dining-tables; but, despite the lights and the music, it was evident that the servitors outnumbered the guests.  Nominally high wages were offset by the various deceptions open to an ingenious management; prices were higher here than elsewhere; the coat-rooms were robbers’ dens infested by Italian mafiosi; tips were extravagant and amounted in effect to ransom; and each meal-check was headed by an illegible scrawl which masked an item termed “service.”  The figure opposite would have covered the cost of a repast at Childs’s.  But New York dearly loves to be pillaged; it cherishes a reputation for princely carelessness of expenditure.  It follows that freedom from extortion in places of entertainment argues a want of popularity, than which nothing can be more distressing to contemplate.  Nothing speeds the Manhattan sleep-hater more swiftly to a change of scene than the knowledge that he is getting his money’s worth.

“Speaking of clothes,” Jim continued, staring past his sister to another table, “there seems to be a strike-breaker in the room.  Pipe the gink with the night-shirt under his coat, and the shoe-string tie.  There must be a masquerade—­Say!  He’s bowing to you.”

“Hush!  It’s Campbell Pope, the critic.”

Mr. Pope had risen and was slouching toward them.  He took Lorelei’s hand, then shot a sharp glance at her escort as the girl introduced them.  Accepting Jim’s mumbled invitation, he seated himself and instructed a waiter to bring his coffee.  Jim continued to eye him with poorly concealed amusement, until Pope led him into conversation, whereupon the youth began to take in the fact that his guest’s intelligence and appearance were entirely out of harmony.  Wisely, Jim sheltered himself behind an assumption of pleasantry he was far from feeling.  He also watched the nearest entrance with some anxiety, for the reviewer’s presence did not fit well with his plans.  As he finished ordering he heard Pope say: 

“I was sorry the story got out, Miss Knight; but it was pretty well smothered in this evening’s papers.  Of course, you were dragged in by the hair to afford a Roman spectacle:  we all saw what it meant when it came to us.”