"And there are plenty of others. There's raw material enough in that Horse Show to make it a permanent exhibition if the managers would only get together and lick it into shape. As a sort of social zoo it is unsurpassed, and why they don't classify the various sections of it I can't see. In the first place, imagine a dozen boxes filled with members of the Four Hundred, men and women whose names have become household words, and wearing on their backs garments made by the deft fingers of the greatest sartorial artists of the ages. You and I walk in and are permitted to gaze upon this glorious assemblage--the American nobility--in its gayest environment. Wouldn't it interest you to know that that very beautiful woman in the lavender creation, wrapped up in a billion-dollar pearl necklace, is the famous Mrs. Bollington-Jones, who holds the divorce championship of South Dakota, and that those two chaps who are talking to her so vivaciously are two of her ex-husbands, Van Bibber Beaconhill and 'Tommy' Fitz Greenwich? Wouldn't it interest you more than any horse in the ring to know that her gown was turned out at Mrs. Robert Bluefern's Dud Studio at a cost of nine thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, hat included? Yet the programme says never a word about these people. Every horse that trots in has a number so that you can tell who and what and why he is, but there are no placards on Mrs. Bollington-Jones by which she may be identified. "Then on the promenade, there is Hooker Van Winkle. He's out on bail for killing a farmer with his automobile up in Connecticut somewhere. There is young Walston Addlepate, whose father pays him a salary of twenty-five thousand dollars a year for keeping out of business. There's Jimson Gooseberry, the cotillon leader, whose name is on every lip during the season. Approaching you, dressed in gorgeous furs, is Mrs. Dinningforth Winter, who declined to meet Prince Henry when he was here, because of a previous engagement to dine with Tolby Robinson's pet monkey just in from a cruise in the Indies. And so it goes. The place fairly shrieks with celebrities whose names appear in the _Social Register_, and whose photographs in pink and green are the stock in trade of the Sunday newspapers of saffron tendencies everywhere--but what is done about it? Nothing at all. They come and go, conspicuous but unidentified, and wasting their notoriety on the desert air. It is a magnificent opportunity wasted, and, unless you happen to know these people by sight, you miss a thousand and one little points which are the _sine qua non_ of the show." "I wonder you don't write another Baedeker," said the Bibliomaniac--"_The Idiot's Hand-book to the Horse Show, or Who's Who at the Garden._" "It would be a good idea," said the Idiot. "But the show people must take the initiative. The whole thing needs a live manager." "A sort of Ward MacAllister again?" asked Mr. Brief.