By the time our clockwork cab fetches up in front of the prunery it's after six o'clock. There's no mistakin' the sort of histrionic asylum it was, either. A hungry lookin' bunch of actorets was lined up on the front steps, everyone of 'em with an ear stretched out for the dinner bell. In the window of the first floor front was a beauty doctor's sign, a bull fiddle-artist was sawin' out his soul distress in the hall bedroom above, and up under the cornice the Chicini sisters was leanin' on the ledge and wishin' the folks back in Saginaw would send on that grubstake letter before the landlady got any worse. But maybe you've seen samples of real dogday tragedy among the profesh, when the summer snaps have busted and the fall rehearsals have just begun. What, Mabel? "It's a sure enough double-in-brass roost," says I. "Don't say anything that sounds like contract, or you'll be mobbed." But they sizes Vincent up for a real estate broker, and gives him the chilly stare, until he mentions the old lady's name. Then they thaws out sudden. "Oh, the Duchess!" squeals a couple in chorus. "Why, she always dines out, you know. You'll find her around at Doughretti's, on 27th-st." "Duchess!" says Vincent. "I--I'm afraid there's some mistake." "Not at all," says one of the crowd. "We all call her that. She's got Little Spring Water with her to-night. Doughretti's, just in from the avenue, is the place." And Vincent is the worst puzzled gent you ever saw as he climbs back into the cab. "It can't be mother they mean," says he. "No one would ever think of calling her Duchess." "There's no accountin' for what them actorines would do," says I. "Anyway, all you got to do is take a peek at the party, and if it's a wrong steer we can go back and take a fresh start." You know Doughretti's, if you don't you know a dozen just like it. It's one of these sixty-cent table dotty joints, with an electric name sign, a striped stoop awnin', and a seven-course menu manifolded in pale purple ink. You begin the agony with an imitation soup that looks like Rockaway beach water when the tide's comin' in, and you end with a choice of petrified cheese rinds that might pass for souvenirs from the Palisades. If you don't want to taste what you eat, you let 'em hand you a free bottle of pure California claret, vatted on East Houston-st. It's a mixture of filtered Croton, extra quality aniline dyes, and two kinds of wood alcohol, and after you've had a pint of it you don't care whether the milk fed Philadelphia chicken was put in cold storage last winter, or back in the year of the big wind. Madam Doughretti had just fed the Punk Lady waltz into the pianola for the fourth time as we pulls up at the curb. "It's no use," says Vincent. "She wouldn't be here. I will wait, though, while you take a look around; if you will, Shorty."