There were other drawings, if not all by the same hand, at least by the same school; one, sketched in bold strokes, of a dinner party in a stately neo-classic dining-room, the table laden with flowers and silver, the bare-throated women with jewels.  A more critical eye than Lise’s, gazing upon this portrayal of the Valhalla of success, might have detected in the young men, immaculate in evening dress, a certain effort to feel at home, to converse naturally, which their square jaws and square shoulders belied.  This was no doubt the fault of the artist’s models, who had failed to live up to the part.  At any rate, the sight of these young gods of leisure, the contemplation of the stolid butler and plush footmen in the background never failed to make Lise’s heart beat faster.

On the marble of the bureau amidst a litter of toilet articles, and bought by Lise for a quarter at the Bagatelle bargain counter, was an oval photograph frame from which the silver wash had begun to rub off, and the band of purple velvet inside the metal had whitened.  The frame always contained the current object of Lise’s affections, though the exhibits—­as Janet said—­were subject to change without notice.  The Adonis who now reigned had black hair cut in the prevailing Hampton fashion, very long in front and hanging down over his eyes like a Scottish terrier’s; very long behind, too, but ending suddenly, shaved in a careful curve at the neck and around the ears.  It had almost the appearance of a Japanese wig.  The manly beauty of Mr. Max Wylie was of the lantern-jawed order, and in his photograph he conveyed the astonished and pained air of one who has been suddenly seized by an invisible officer of the law from behind.  This effect, one presently perceived, was due to the high, stiff collar, the “Torture Brand,” Janet called it, when she and her sister were engaged in one of their frequent controversies about life in general:  the obvious retort to this remark, which Lise never failed to make, was that Janet could boast of no beaux at all.

It is only fair to add that the photograph scarcely did Mr. Wylie justice.  In real life he did not wear the collar, he was free and easy in his manners, sure of his powers of conquest.  As Lise observed, he had made a home-run with her at Slattery’s Riverside Park.  “Sadie Hartmann was sure sore when I tangoed off with him,” she would observe reminiscently....

It was Lise’s habit to slight her morning toilet, to linger until the last minute in bed, which she left in reluctant haste to stand before the bureau frantically combing out kinks of the brown hair falling over her shoulders before jamming it down across her forehead in the latest mode.  Thus occupied, she revealed a certain petulant beauty.  Like the majority of shop-girls, she was small, but her figure was good, her skin white; her discontented mouth gave her the touch of piquancy apt to play havoc with the work of the world.  In winter breakfast was eaten by