“They’re going on the road next week,” said Rosalie. “And then I’ll be all alone.” She added, in a pleading voice: “Do, Ollie, be a good boy and take us out to-night. Think how long it’s been since I’ve seen you! Why, I’ve been so good I don’t know myself in the looking-glass. Please, Ollie!” “All right,” said he, “maybe I will.” “I’m not going to let you get away from me,” she cried. “I’ll come right over the footlights after you!” “You’d better get dressed,” said Oliver. “You’ll be late.” He pushed aside a tray with some glasses on it, and seated himself upon a trunk; and Montague stood in a corner and watched Rosalie, while she powdered and painted herself, and put on an airy summer dress, and poured out a flood of gossip about “Toodles” and “Flossie” and “Grace” and some others. A few minutes later came a stentorian voice in the hallway: “Second act!” There were more embraces, and then Ollie brushed the powder from his coat, and went away laughing. Montague stood for a few moments in the wings, watching the scene-shifters putting the final touches to the new set, and the various characters taking their positions. Then they went out to their seats. “Isn’t she a jewel?” asked Oliver. “She’s very pretty,” the other admitted. “She came right out of the slums,” said Oliver—“over on Rivington Street. That don’t happen very often.” “How did you come to know her?” asked his brother. “Oh, I picked her out. She was in a chorus, then. I got her first speaking part.” “Did you?” said the other, in surprise. “How did you do that?” “Oh, a little money,” was the reply. “Money will do most anything. And I was in love with her—that’s how I got her.” Montague said nothing, but sat in thought. “We’ll take her out to supper and make her happy,” added Oliver, as the curtain started up. “She’s lonesome, I guess. You see, I promised Betty I’d reform.” All through that scene and the next one Rosalie acted for them; she was so full of _verve_ and merriment that there was quite a stir in the audience, and she got several rounds of applause. Then, when the play was over, she extricated herself from the arms of the handsome young soldier, and fled to her dressing-room, and when Oliver and Montague arrived, she was half ready for the street. They went up Broadway, and from a group of people coming out of another stage-entrance a young girl came to join them—an airy little creature with the face of a doll-baby, and a big hat with a purple feather on top. This was “Toodles”—otherwise known as Helen Gwynne; and she took Montague’s arm, and they fell in behind Oliver and his companion.