of their arms and fender-piles of their bodies. Here,
too, are skinny, sun-dried Excellencies with a taste
for revolutions, well-groomed club swells with a taste
for adventure and cocktails, not to mention half a
dozen gay, rollicking Bohemians with a taste for
everything that came their way.

Perhaps it might have been best to enclose each
story in a separate cover, and then to dump the unassorted
lot upon the table, where those who wished
could make their choice. And yet, as I turn the leaves,
I must admit that, after all, the present form is best,
since each and every incident, situation, and bit of local
color has either passed before or was poured into the
wide-open eyes and willing ears of your most humble
and obedient servant

A Staid Old Painter.

150 East 34th Street,
New York, March 13, 1907.




THE VEILED LADY OF STAMBOUL



Joe Hornstog told me this story--the first part of