If you study the majority of the faces you will see that they are cut as if of stone. They are faces of women who have lived through tragedies, have thrust those tragedies aside and have reduced life to a mere living from day to day, prepared every hour to barter flesh and blood for cash. But, as in the less pretentious cafe, we find here also the type of girls and women who are just beginning to stray into the broad path of destruction. Money buys a false air of respectability. It has purchased that pharasaical atmosphere for the big hotels. It is in these fashionable hotel cafes and restaurants that sin is suggested and the road to ruin prepared. Of course, we must not lose sight of the fact that the vast majority of the women who enter such places, have long since drunk the first glass of poison and eaten the first piece of forbidden fruit. Into these places, nightly, thousands of men and women bent on shameful missions come and depart, inebriated by wines and liquors and forgetful of respect to each other. There are, however, hundreds who enter and depart without being contaminated by the vice that haunts the handsomely furnished apartments. Out in the lobby of the hotel, we notice a nattily-dressed man of mature years with the gray showing in his hair, holding a conversation with one of the hotel attaches. We are curious. We notice he is being given directions. We follow him to a room in one of the hotels adjoining the one we have just visited. He is taken to a certain room and is admitted by a rather flashingly dressed woman of about forty-five years, of florid complexion and sharp, raucous voice. She smiles at the man. He speaks to her in a low voice. We might overhear this conversation or one similar to it in import: "I am Mr. Edwards from Cincinnati. I am a business man and the evening is boring. Mr. ... the hotel clerk, tells me you can find me a companion?" queries the caller. The woman smiles knowingly, stops and thinks and then says in a half jesting manner: "Why, certainly, Mr. Edwards. I can make the evening agreeable. I can find you the best little partner in the world. "But"--and she smiles some more--"what do you want, something rather young and new to the game, or a 'woman of some experience?' I can certainly produce a choice assortment." Then she laughs that meaningless laugh again. Mr. Edwards hesitates a moment, laughs off a possible embarrassment and then answers in assumed flippancy: "Oh, as long as they are numerous, serve me up a young blonde chicken of about seventeen summers, one that will go the limit and not try to put mucilage on her fingers to stick to the long green. I'll pay her right for her trouble."