vehicle she could see the queen of burlesque standing in the center of
the depot platform, surrounded by her company. It was a tawdry,
miserable, almost tragic group, the men undersized, be-diamonded,
their skulls oddly shaped, their clothes a satire on the fashions for
men, their chins unshaven, their loose lips curved contentedly over
cigarettes; the women dreadfully unreal with the pitiless light of the
early morning sun glaring down on their bedizened faces, their
spotted, garish clothes, their run-down heels, their vivid veils,
their matted hair. They were quarreling among themselves, and a flame
of hate for the moment lighted up those dull, stupid, vicious faces.
Blanche LeHaye appeared to be the center about which the strife waged,
for suddenly she flung through the shrill group and walked swiftly
over to the 'bus and climbed into it heavily. One of the women turned,
her face lived beneath the paint, to scream a great oath after her.
The 'bus driver climbed into his seat and took up the reins. After a
moment's indecision the little group on the platform turned and
trailed off down the street, the women sagging under the weight of
their bags, the men, for the most part, hurrying on ahead. When the
'bus lurched past them the woman who had screamed the oath after
Blanche LeHaye laughed shrilly and made a face, like a naughty child,
whereupon the others laughed in falsetto chorus.

A touch of real color showed in Blanche LeHaye's flabby cheek. "I'll
show'm she snarled. That hussy of a Zella Dacre thinkin' she can get
my part away from me the last week or so, the lyin' sneak. I'll show'm
a leadin' lady's a leadin' lady. Let 'em go to their hash hotels. I'm
goin' to the real inn in this town just to let 'em know that I got my
dignity to keep up, and that I don't have to mix in with scum like
that. You see that there? She pointed at something in the street. Emma
McChesney turned to look. The cheap lithographs of the Sam Levin