taste better than the small bird and the small bottle with insult as a
_demi-tasse_. Then, too, she loses caste at once; for it is not enough
that a girl should not do evil: she must also avoid the appearance of
evil. She will be judged by the character of her companions, and a few
half-hearted denials, a shrug of the shoulders, a discreetly suppressed
smile, will place her among the list of his "mashes." Oh, hideous word!

Of course, now and again, at long, long intervals, a man really falls in
love with a woman whom he has seen only upon the stage; but no "masher"
proceedings are taken in such cases. On the other hand, very determined
efforts are made to locate the actress's family or friends, and through
them to be properly presented.

Believing, as I did, that every girl had a perfect right to humiliate a
"masher" to the extent of her ability, I once went, it's hard to admit
it, but really I did go, too far in reprisal. Well, at all events, I was
made to feel rather ashamed of myself. We were presenting "Alixe" at Mr.
Daly's Broadway Theatre, just after the fire, and the would-be
lady-killer was abroad in the land and unusually active. There was
seldom a night that some one was not laughing contemptuously or frowning
fiercely over a "drop letter," as we called them. One evening my box
held a most inflammable communication. It was not written upon club
paper, nor had it any private monogram; in fact, it was on legal cap.
The hand was large, round, and laboriously distinct. The i's were
dotted, the t's crossed with painful precision, while toward capitals
and punctuation marks the writer showed more generosity than
understanding. His sentiment and romance were of the old-time rural
type, and I am certain he longed to quote, "The rose is red, the
violet's blue." I might have been a little touched but for the
signature. I loathed the faintest hint of anonymity, and simply could