exist a certain body of girls who think it great fun to get a jolly
supper or a ride to the races out of the Johnny's pocket-book. Wait,
now; please don't jump instantly to the conclusion that these chorus or
ballet girls are thoroughly bad because they smash to smithereens the
conventional laws regulating the conduct of society girls. Most of them,
on the contrary, are honest and, knowing how to take care of themselves,
will risk hearing a few impudent, wounding words rather than lose one
hour of merriment their youth craves. Of course this is not as it should
be, but these girls are pretty; life has been hard; delicate
sensibilities have not been cultivated in them. Before we harshly
condemn, let us first bow to that rough honesty that will defend
itself, if need be, with a blow. A refined girl would never put herself
in a position requiring such drastic measures; but it is, I think, to
these reckless young wretches, and a few silly, sentimental simpletons
who permit themselves to be drawn into a mawkish correspondence with
perfect strangers, that we really owe the continued existence of the
stage-door "masher," who wishes to be mistaken for a member of the
_jeunesse dorée_.

But the mammas and the aunties may feel perfectly safe for another
reason. The earnest, ambitious young gentlewoman you are watching over
is not often attractive to the "masher." The clever and promising
artist, Miss G----, is not his style. He is not looking for brains,
"don't yer know." He fancies No. 3 in the second row, she with the
flashing eyes and teeth; or No. 7 in the front row, that has the cutest
kick in the whole crowd. And his cheap and common letters of fulsome
compliment and invitation go to her accordingly. But the daring little
free lance who accepts these attentions pays a high price for the bit of
supper that is followed by gross impertinences. One would think that the
democratic twenty-five-cent oyster stew, and respect therewith, would