Crackerjack Belles Company glared at one from the bill-boards.

"That's our paper," explained Blanche LeHaye. "That's me, in the
center of the bunch, with the pink reins in my hands, drivin' that
four-in-hand of johnnies. Hot stuff! Just let Dacre try to get it away
from me, that's all. I'll show'm."

She sank back into her corner. Her anger left her with the suddenness
characteristic of her type.

"Ain't this heat fierce?" she fretted, and closed her eyes.

Now, Emma McChesney was a broad-minded woman. The scars that she had
received in her ten years' battle with business reminded her to be
tender at sight of the wounds of others. But now, as she studied the
woman huddled there in the corner, she was conscious of a shuddering
disgust of her--of the soiled blouse, of the cheap finery, of the
sunken places around the jaw-bone, of the swollen places beneath the
eyes, of the thin, carmined lips, of the--

Blanche LeHaye opened her eyes suddenly and caught the look on Emma
McChesney's face. Caught it, and comprehended it. Her eyes narrowed,
and she laughed shortly.

"Oh, I dunno," drawled Blanche LeHaye. "I wouldn't go's far's that,
kid. Say, when I was your age I didn't plan to be no bum burlesquer
neither. I was going to be an actress, with a farm on Long Island,
like the rest of 'em. Every real actress has got a farm on Long
Island, if it's only there in the mind of the press agent. It's a kind
of a religion with 'em. I was goin' to build a house on mine that was