In the beginning, the moving picture critic of the Western City “Times” had made some effort to restrain his amusement.  But as this performance went on, his face became one enormous, wide-spreading grin; and you can understand, that made him seem quite devilish.  I saw that Carpenter was more and more goaded by it.  He would look at Rosythe, and then he would turn away in aversion.  But at last he made an effort to conquer his feelings, and went up to the critic, and said, gently:  “My friend:  for every man who lives on earth, some woman has paid the price of life.”

“The price of life?” repeated the critic, puzzled.

Carpenter waved his hand towards the door.  “We confront this everlasting mystery, this everlasting terror; and it is not becoming that you should mock.”

The grin faded from the other’s face.  His brows wrinkled, and he said:  “I don’t get you, friend.  What can a man do?”

“At least he can bow his heart; he can pay his tribute to womanhood.”

“You’re too much for me,” responded Rosythe.  “The imbeciles choose to go through with it; it’s their own choice.”

Said Carpenter:  “You have never thought of it as the choice of God?”

“Holy smoke!” exclaimed the critic.  “I sure never did!”

At that moment one of the doors was opened.  Rosythe turned his eyes.  “Ah, Madame Planchet!” he cried.  “Come tell us about it!”

IX

A stoutish woman out of a Paris fashion-plate came trotting across the room, smiling in welcome:  “Meester Rosythe!” She had black earrings flapping from each ear, and her face was white, with a streak of scarlet for lips.  She took the critic by his two hands, and the critic, laughing, said:  “Respondez, Madame!  Does God bring the ladies to this place?”

“Ah, surely, Meester Rosythe!  The god of beautee, he breengs them to us!  And the leetle god with the golden arrow, the rosy cheeks and the leetle dimple—­the dimple that we make heem for two hundred dollars a piece—­eh, Meester Rosythe?  He breengs the ladies to us!”

The critic turned.  “Madame Planchet, permit me to introduce Mr. Carpenter.  He is a man of wonder, he heals pain, and does it by means of love.”

“Oh, how eenteresting!  But what eef love heemself ees pain—­who shall heal that, eh, Meester Carpentair?”

“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-h!” came the moan.

Said Rosythe:  “Mr. Carpenter thinks you make the ladies suffer too much.  It worries him.”

“Ah, but the ladies do not mind!  Pain?  What ees eet?  The lady who makes the groans, she cannot move, and so she ees unhappy.  Also, she likes to have her own way, she ees a leetle—­what you say?—­spoilt.  But her troubles weel pass; she weel be beautiful, and her husband weel love her more, and she weel be happy.”

“O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oh!” from the other room; and Madame Planchet prattled away:  “I say to them, Make plenty of noises!  Eet helps!  No one weel be afraid, for all here are worshippers of the god of beautee—­all weel bear the pains that he requires.  Eh, Meester Carpentair?”