matinee you might observe the street in front of the stage-entrance blocked by people waiting to see the woman come out.  She was lithe and supple, like a panther, and wore close-fitting gowns to reveal her form.  It seemed that her play must have been built with one purpose in mind, to see how much lewdness could be put upon a stage without interference by the police.—­And now his companion told him how this woman had been invited to sing at a banquet given by the magnates of a mighty Trust, and had gone after midnight to the most exclusive club in the town, and sung her popular ditty, “Won’t you come and play with me?” The merry magnates had taken the invitation literally—­with the result that the actress had escaped from the room with half her clothing torn off her.  And a little while later an official of this trust had wished to get rid of his wife and marry a chorus-girl; and when public clamour had forced the directors to ask him to resign, he had replied by threatening to tell about this banquet!

The next day—­or rather, to be precise, that same morning—­Montague and Alice attended the gorgeous wedding.  It was declared by the newspapers to be the most “important” social event of the week; and it took half a dozen policemen to hold back the crowds which filled the street.  The ceremony took place at St. Cecilia’s, with the stately bishop officiating, in his purple and scarlet robes.  Inside the doors were all the elect, exquisitely groomed and gowned, and such a medley of delicious perfumes as not all the vales in Arcady could equal.  The groom had been polished and scrubbed, and looked very handsome, though somewhat pale; and Montague could not but smile as he observed the best man, looking so very solemn, and recollected the drunken wrestler of a few hours before, staggering about in a pale blue undershirt ripped up the back.

The Montagues knew by this time whom they were to avoid.  They were graciously taken under the wing of Mrs. Eldridge Devon—­whose real estate was not affected by insurance suits; and the next morning they had the satisfaction of seeing their names in the list of those present—­and even a couple of lines about Alice’s costume. (Alice was always referred to as “Miss Montague”; it was very pleasant to be the “Miss Montague,” and to think of all the other would-be Miss Montagues in the city, who were thereby haughtily rebuked!) In the “yellow” papers there were also accounts of the trousseau of the bride, and of the wonderful gifts which she had received, and of the long honeymoon which she was to spend in the Mediterranean upon her husband’s yacht.  Montague found himself wondering if the ghosts of its former occupants would not haunt her, and whether she would have been as happy, had she known as much as he knew.