flitted about among the chorus girls, followed by a pale, drab woman
with pins, and touched their dresses and sniggered and made remarks
with a certain touch of literary excellence in a slightly guttural
voice. This was Poppy Shemalitz, the frock expert, the man milliner
of the firm, who was required to make bricks out of straw, or as he
frequently said to the friends of his "bosom," "make fifteen dollars
look like fifty." Self-preservation and a sense of humor encouraged
him through the abusive days of a dog's life.

Sitting in the last row of the orchestra, wearing the expression of
interest and astonishment of a man who had fallen suddenly into
another world, was Martin. He had been there since eight o'clock.
For over six hours he had watched banality emerge from chaos and had
listened to the blasphemy and insults of Jackrack. He would have
continued to watch and listen until daylight peered upbraidingly
through the chinks in the exit doors but for the sudden appearance
of Susie Capper, dressed for the street.

"Hello, Tootles! But you're not through, are you?"

"Absobloominlootely," she said emphatically.

"I thought you said your best bit was in the second act?"

"'Was' is right. Come on outer here. I can't stand the place a
minute longer. It'll give me apoplexy."

Martin followed her into the foyer. The tragic rage on the girl's
little, pretty, usually good-natured face worried him. He knew that
she had looked forward to this production to make her name on