to land big and support him in the luxury he craved.  I couldn’t hope to be the best, so he made me the worst.  He began by tying a can to the ‘Agnes Smith,’ and handed me ‘Adoree Demorest’ instead; then he went to work.  He really did work, too, although it nearly killed him, and he’s never done anything since.  I forgot to mention that I signed a contract with him which lawyers tell me is the finest example of air-tight, time, weather, and water proof construction that has been seen since the Declaration of Independence.  It fits closer than a rubber shirt, always retains its shape, lasts longer than old age, and—­no metal can touch you.  The King fable is a joke on the other side, but New York swallowed it clear up to the sinker, and Aubrey gaffed the Palace Garden management for a three years’ contract.  Of course, my advertised salary is phony, just like the rubies and the wrecked throne and that gilded bandwagon with the poodles and the stuffed supers on the box.  Aubrey owns them all except the rubies, which he rents.  I’m billed as the most notorious woman in America, and the shred of reputation I have left wouldn’t make a neck-tie for a gnat, whereas in reality I love marshmallows and tea much more than men.  But I’m a star, at the head of my own company, and playing to sidewalk prices.  Do you think it was a good bargain?”

Lorelei had listened with breathless interest.  Now she burst out impulsively: 

“You poor dear.”

Miss Smith smiled, but her eyes were tragic.

“Sometimes I cry when I think about it.  I—­cry a good deal,” said she.  “I didn’t realize until too late what it meant, but, you see, I was tired of working, tired of ambition, and I wanted to come home.  Thank God I have no people!  I save all the money I can, and when I get enough I’m going to take Agnes Smith out of the moth-balls, dust her off tenderly, and go to raising ducks.”

“Ducks?  What do you mean?”

“What I say.  That has always been my ambition.”

“Why not quit now?”

“What’s the use?  I’m half-way through the swamp; the mud is as deep behind as it is in front.  But I’m deathly afraid all the time that I’ll be found out—­I’d—­rather be notorious than ridiculous.  Of course, Aubrey sees to that.”

“Are you fond of him?”

Adoree turned up her nose.  “He’s a little pink rabbit.  I don’t like any man, and I never have.  There’s only one I’d really care to meet; his name is Campbell Pope.”

“The critic.  He is nice.”

“The beast.  Did you read what he said about me?  I’ll never rest until I have a lock of his hair that I’ve plucked myself.  I’d love to have his whole scalp—­with say, one ear attached—­hanging on my bureau where I could see it every morning when I wake up.  Somehow I don’t seem to mind the press stuff that Aubrey puts out, but Pope—­actually believes what he wrote.  And other people will believe it, too.  I—­I—­Gosh!  I’m going to cry again.”