On a raised dais, a bent-over consumptive looking young man plays a piano. The airs are the popular hits of the day. A pale-faced youth wipes his purple lips after a hasty sip at a beer glass and advancing to the front of the dais sings a song, usually of sensuous import. He is extravagantly applauded. He is "sent up" a drink by some pleased patron. But look about you. There are more than one hundred tables. At each table sit at least one man and one woman. In every woman's face, if you are observant, is written a tragedy, either beginning that night, or in its unfolding or finished years before. Do you see that "washed-out" bleached blonde with colorless eyes, who smiles at the drinking youth who sits with her? She has lived through the tragedy. Life to her is but an aftermath of unending agony. The monster Vice has long ago sucked the life blood from her veins. She has been discarded. She lives from day to day on her passing victims. They are usually unsophisticated youths, proud to sit with her, buy her more poison and peril their young lives by contact with her. She is coughing. That is the warning signal she knows well but attempts to forget. It is the signal that death has placed his hands upon her. She has fulfilled her mission. Hell must claim its own. You are attracted by a merry burst of laughter from pretty lips. You turn. How her eyes sparkle! How her cheeks burn crimson! Her body moves sinuously to the rhythm of the music. She smiles even at you as she sips her "fizz." She is intoxicated with life. It is lights and shadows, songs and flowers. She is a favorite among men. A much-sought after girl on the border line of womanhood. She has no terrors tonight; no haunting nightmares. Her blood flows fast; her pulse thrills her; her thoughts burn with pleasing fire. She is reckless. Why not? The world is a bed of roses. Four months ago she wandered into the paths that lead to hell. Six dollars a week as a clerk. No clothes, no delicacies, no amusements. She learned the secrets of the girl who worked beside her; how she purchased the "good things" of life. Her virginal innocence was the inestimable price! Tonight she is an habitue of the brilliant cafe. The path is still one of beauty and fascination. The tragedy is in its inception. The bright eyes will become dull, the sweet voice harsh, the cheeks pale, the face haggard. The wine shall have been sipped. Nothing then but the bitter dregs! Oh, the horror of that approaching tragedy! Her end is inevitable. An early grave, a house of prostitution or an insane asylum! There is rarely ever a turning back. Vice buries its tentacles deep in the flesh. THE FIRST STEP. "Dearie, don't be afraid of that. Really, it's like a 'soft' drink. It won't make you drunk." Again you turn on hearing that remark. He is leaning over the table;--a gray-haired, fashionably dressed man. The young girl he is talking to, is not more than sixteen years of age.