seen the light of day on old Irish soil. Their faces showed
content and pride as they limped along with this lusty progeny of
theirs that had fed on better food.

Not with these did Mary and Saxon belong. They knew them not, had
no acquaintances among them. It did not matter whether the
festival were Irish, German, or Slavonian; whether the picnic was
the Bricklayers', the Brewers', or the Butchers'. They, the
girls, were of the dancing crowd that swelled by a certain
constant percentage the gate receipts of all the picnics.

They strolled about among the booths where peanuts were grinding
and popcorn was roasting in preparation for the day, and went on
and inspected the dance floor of the pavilion. Saxon, clinging to
an imaginary partner, essayed a few steps of the dip-waltz. Mary
clapped her hands.

"My!" she cried. "You're just swell! An' them stockin's is
peaches."

Saxon smiled with appreciation, pointed out her foot,
velvet-slippered with high Cuban heels, and slightly lifted the
tight black skirt, exposing a trim ankle and delicate swell of
calf, the white flesh gleaming through the thinnest and flimsiest
of fifty-cent black silk stockings. She was slender, not tall,
yet the due round lines of womanhood were hers. On her white
shirtwaist was a pleated jabot of cheap lace, caught with a large
novelty pin of imitation coral. Over the shirtwaist was a natty
jacket, elbow-sleeved, and to the elbows she wore gloves of
imitation suede. The one essentially natural touch about her