An obsequious doorman threw open the limousine door as the car stopped before the great hotel. He handed the dummy-chucker a ticket. "Number of your car, sir," he said obsequiously. "Ah, yes, of course," said the dummy-chucker. He felt in his pocket. Part of the silver that the soft-hearted women of the movies had bestowed upon him this afternoon found repository in the doorman's hand. A uniformed boy whirled the revolving door that the dummy-chucker might pass into the hotel. "The coat-room? Dining here, sir? Past the news-stand, sir, to your left. Thank you, sir." The boy's bow was as profound as though the quarter in his palm had been placed there by a duke. The girl who received his coat and hat smiled as pleasantly and impersonally upon the dummy-chucker as she did upon the whiskered, fine-looking old gentleman who handed her his coat at the same time. She called the dummy-chucker's attention to the fact that his tie was a trifle loose. The dummy-chucker walked to the big mirror that stands in the corner made by the corridor that parallels Fifty-ninth Street and the corridor that separates the tea-room from the dining-room. His clumsy fingers found difficulty with the tie. The fine-looking old gentleman, adjusting his own tie, stepped closer. "Beg pardon, sir. May I assist you?" The dummy-chucker smiled a grateful assent. The old gentleman fumbled a moment with the tie. "I think that's better," he said. He bowed as one man of the world might to another, and turned away. Under his breath, the dummy-chucker swore gently. "You'd think, the way he helped me, that I belonged to the Four Hundred." He glanced down the corridor. In the tea-room were sitting groups who awaited late arrivals. Beautiful women, correctly garbed, distinguished-looking men. Their laughter sounded pleasantly above the subdued strains of the orchestra. Many of them looked at the dummy-chucker. Their eyes rested upon him for that well-bred moment that denotes acceptance. "One of themselves," said the dummy-chucker to himself. Well, why not? Once again he looked at himself in the mirror. There might be handsomer men present in this hotel, but--was there any one who wore his clothes better? He turned and walked down the corridor. The _mâitre d'hôtel_ stepped forward inquiringly as the dummy-chucker hesitated in the doorway. "A table, sir?" "You have one reserved for me. This right-hand one by the door." "Ah, yes, of course, sir. This way, sir." He turned toward the table. Over the heads of intervening diners, the dummy-chucker saw his host. The shaded lights upon the table at which the young man sat revealed, not too clearly yet well enough, the features of a girl. "A lady!" said the dummy-chucker, under his breath. "The real thing!"