Stock Exchange, you may see each and every one of the
members of the Mausoleum Club dragging himself up the
steps after this fashion, his restless eyes filled with
the dumb pathos of a man wondering where he can put his
hand on half a million dollars.

But at gayer times, when there are gala receptions at
the club, its steps are all buried under expensive carpet,
soft as moss and covered over with a long pavilion of
red and white awning to catch the snowflakes; and beautiful
ladies are poured into the club by the motorful. Then,
indeed, it is turned into a veritable Arcadia; and for
a beautiful pastoral scene, such as would have gladdened
the heart of a poet who understood the cost of things,
commend me to the Mausoleum Club on just such an evening.
Its broad corridors and deep recesses are filled with
shepherdesses such as you never saw, dressed in beautiful
shimmering gowns, and wearing feathers in their hair that
droop off sideways at every angle known to trigonometry.
And there are shepherds, too, with broad white waistcoats
and little patent leather shoes and heavy faces and
congested cheeks. And there is dancing and conversation
among the shepherds and shepherdesses, with such brilliant
flashes of wit and repartee about the rise in Wabash and
the fall in Cement that the soul of Louis Quatorze would
leap to hear it. And later there is supper at little
tables, when the shepherds and shepherdesses consume
preferred stocks and gold-interest bonds in the shape of
chilled champagne and iced asparagus, and great platefuls
of dividends and special quarterly bonuses are carried