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gle, you really must not go and" see
that girl. Don't you know that she
is surely some girl that has simply
roped poor Jack in? Chorus girls,
my dear, are women that are not for
you to know."
"Any woman, Dick, is for me to
know," I answered. "If this girl is
even all you think she is I would like
very much to get the angle from
which she views life."
"Most of them," said Dick, "view
life for the short time they live in the
limelight as a continual joy ride and
they spend it making some one man
or many men pay for the noisy cele
bration." "Dick, don't you think there are
any good women in the chorus?" I
asked, and I know my voice trembled
for it seemed' to me a monstrous
thing to label all those pretty girls as
pitch that a man's wife and daugh
ters must not touch lest they be de
filed. "It's according to what you call
'good,' Margie," Dick answered. "If
you call a woman 'good' who is
chaste, there are many in the chorus,
but most of these live in fire and are
not burned. They accept from men
everything in the way of presents,
flowers and attentions that is offered
and give nothing in return.
"Otheres are little moths who fly
into the flame and singe their wings
only to learn nothing from the burn
and so repeat the measure until the
dance becomes death."
"Poor things poor things," I mur
mured as Dick reached out his arm
and drew me to him.
I snuggled up close it was so good
to feel the protection and "nearness"
of him that for a little I forgot all
about all, of the other women who
had to fight for a- foothold on the
precarious steep of life.
Dick bent over and kissed me in
the darkness of the limousine. "Mar
gie," he whispered, "I don't mean to
shock you with my knowledge of life,
in fact, I never intended to tell any
of it to you, but you seem so easily
hoodwinked that before I know it I
am trying to show you that this world
is not filled with women like your
self." "Who. and what are women like
me, dear?" I asked. "Are they not
the Annies who wash our clothes and
love and continually sacrifice for
'their men' the Kitty Malrams who,
in disregard of conventions, fall in
love with married men; the Mrs. Ten
neys, who feel outraged and humili
ated by this same man's act; the
Eliene Symones whose longing lips
kiss only empty air instead of a
baby's soft, wet mouth? Yes, dear,
even the poor little chorus girl you
describe and whose many episodes
fill the daily papers and the wise,
serene Mrs. Selwin and all the others
on the streets and in the home are
women like me we only differ in
potentialities, not in essentials."
I wonder if Kipling really knew how
great a truth he set down when he
wrote: "For Julia O'Brady and the
Colonel's Lady are just alike under
(To Be Continued Tomorrow.)
THERE'S A DIFERENCE
By H. M. Cochran.
On Saturday a man will rise,
And eat then rush away.
To hurry down to work he's wise,
For coming is his pay.
On Sunday morn a man will wake,
With Father Time he'll jest
In rising lots' of time he'll take, .
For 'tis his day of rest.
On Monday mom, alas, alack,
A man feels full of shirk.
And yet he's got to hustle back
And buckle down to work.
Queen Mary is said to have such a
horror for dirt that she has all money
scrubbed that she or her children are
to handle. Can you imagine what
would happen tp lung George if he
tracked mud into the castle or drop
; ped cigar ashes on the floor?