"We asked for beer and rabbits," insisted the host of the little group. He really did not know his New York. "We have fine partridges," reiterated the head-waiter, then yawned slightly behind his hand. That yawn settled it. The head of the party was bellicose. He lost his temper completely. In a few minutes an ambulance and a patrol wagon came racing up Broadway. But the hotel had won. It always does. * * * * * One thing more--the _cabaret_. We think that if you are really fond of Katherine, and Katherine's reputation, you will avoid the restaurants that make a specialty of the so-called _cabarets_. Really good restaurants manage to get along without them. And the very best that can be said of them is that they are invariably indifferently poor--a _mélange_ contributed by broken-down actors or actresses, or boys or girls stolen from the possibilities of a really decent way of earning a living. As for the worst, it is enough to say that the familiarity that begins by breeding contempt follows in the wake of the _cabaret_. It may be very jolly for you, of a lonely summer evening in New York and forgetting all the real pleasures of a lonely summer night in the big town--wonderful orchestral concerts in Central Park, dining on open-air terraces and cool quiet roofs, motoring off to wonderful shore dinners in queer old taverns--to hunt out these great gay places in the heart of the town. Easy _camaraderie_ is part and parcel of them. But you will not want such comrades to meet any of the Katherines of your family. And therein lies a more than subtle distinction. VII It has all quite dazed you. You turn toward Katherine as you ride home with her in the taxicab--space forbids a description of the horrors and the indignities of the taxicab trust. "Is it like this--every night?" you feebly ask. "Every night of the year," she replies. "And typical New Yorkers like it." That puts a brand-new thought into your mind. "What is a typical New Yorker?" you demand. "We are all typical New Yorkers," she laughs. It is a foolish answer--of course. But the strange part of the whole thing is that Katherine is right. Either there are no typical New Yorkers--as many sane folk solemnly aver--or else every one who tarries in the city through the passing of even a single night is a typical New Yorker. How can it be else in a city who is still growing like a girl in her teens, who adds to herself each year in permanent population 135,000 human beings, whose transient population is nightly estimated at over a hundred thousand? They are all typical New Yorkers.