The Park Avenue bug usually bites hoi polloi in one of the four or five East Side bistros that cater to the high-tipper set--Stork Club, Colony, Armando's, or El Morocco. An attaché--say a press agent, headwaiter or even the boss--is swept off his feet by patronage of aristocracy; when the debutantes call him by his first name, the ex-barkeep begins to think of marrying one. Unless a name is in the Register, he gives it a table in left field. He becomes the complete snob, an insufferable boor, and ends up being a chump to the congenital bluebloods and those who knew him when. Now, some East Side night spot impresarios are hot to hire D.A.R. names, for tone, réclame and "contacts." Sherman Billingsley of the Stork once thought it good business to engage a group of society girls to publicize his place. "Maybe the debs can't do the job as well as the regulars, but they don't go ga-ga when they see a DePuyster," he said. "Besides, even if they don't get printed publicity, their friends come to visit them, which brings in business, which is what I'm in business for." Not all who "go Park Avenue" are fakes or phonies. For the wealth, the fame and the acclaim that go as rewards for talent, endeavor or outstanding beauty also are on the East Side. Those who achieve--via business, the arts, or charm--soon find the orbit of life has swung away from Grand Street or 42nd Street, as it had from Sioux City, and now extends from El Morocco to the Stork. Take the tale of Florence Pritchett, outstanding beauty of two coasts, once reported engaged to young Alfred G. Vanderbilt, before his surprise marriage. Then she went with movie star Bob Walker. Florence is the product of a small Jersey farm. Back home, like most daughters of plowboys, she dreamed of Broadway, read movie and theatrical magazines, studied the fashions in the slick paper issues. But she didn't know how to dress or make up. She came to New York, like many others, in search of big things. But Chance quite often puts gals like her behind a five-and-dime store counter instead of inside a natural mink. Chance, in the person of John Robert Powers, the models' agent, discovered her. He whipped her into one of the most fashionable young women in town. She quickly became his top number. She married young Dick Canning, who before the war was associated with an advertising agency which handled the account of the New York Fashion Industry. Dick cleverly arranged a tie-up whereby his lovely wife was provided with the most expensive in the smartest of frocks, coats and hats, which she wore nightly to all the swank clubs. Every day she had a complete, different outfit. Imagine that, girls!--wearing $300 dresses, a new one every day, new $30 shoes, new ermines, new silver foxes, priceless hats.