Life — October 26, 1905 — page 8: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

-LIFE- The Beautiful Gentleman. By B—TH T—RK—NGT—N. Cuarter I. those feet! Of the grayness of a soft cloud with neat, NOTHING coma have been so —_periect creases, evidently the loving masterpiece of & great painful to my blushes, so tailor. My heart thrilled. Were those the legs of Hackett? torturing to my maiden mod- Long he gazed, this beautiful jeman, while 1 sprinkled esty, as to sit all day behind — on the tonic with trembling rs and drew the comb the plate glass window of a feverishly through my hair. i shop as one Then he entered, and I heard his voice mellifuously n Sutherland Sis- murmuring, “One bottle of that tonic, please.” Oh, that et such was my fate. ce; deeper than the subway, richer than Rockefeller! Sometimes, to ease a little Forbes Robertson? the agony of my situation, I st behind him followed innumerable pairs of feminine would fancy myself a mer- feet, adoringly, yet hesit . When he paused, they maid sitting uponarock,the paused; when he moved on, they moved on, and I—daugh- latter no difficult feat of the ter of the hauglity Vaselinis—ielt the same impulse. imag’ golden hair and singing to Cuarter XL, entrap the hearts of men. My engagement or my martyrdom—what you will—was the crystal finally over. Then for a season I lived in a “studio,” and did my own cooking. At last, wan and spent with this denly a harsh voice would horrible experience, I wound my telltale locks as tightly break in upon my reveri about my head as possible, disguised myself in a polo “Here, sop your head with that turban and a rain coat, and, carrying ostentatiously that in- tonic. Shake the bottle so that every one can see w is, Ain't no advertising sense? he mermaid would awake from dreams of the deep sea to The way that I—Sadie Vaselini—happened to be a Sutherland Sister was this: I am a New Yorker and poor, therefore papa lost his vast fortune on Wall z Convenient Wall Street! Before that catastrophe I had, of course, known ning but pleasures and palaces; but after it, I cither had to take my little ¢ pail and toil, or starve. Blame me not too greatly that I chose the former al While I sat in t window I never lifted my proud ey he ground, and thus I became an expert in feet. Ladies with broad, flat shoes paused to gaze on my agony, and I could tell at the very exp: r feet that commutresses with long string f parcels. Mincing ladies, with large fee , into small shoes with Louis Quinze heels, nasally expressed admiration of my silken locks, and I could see without lifting m es the flaring low pompadours toppling above their black eyes. During the early days of my ordeal, my cruel and rich signia of respectability—a Boston bag—I sought a situation. sister entered the shop and bought several bottles of the Ultimately, I secured one as chaperon to a demure your tonic. I recognized her by the braid on the hem of her girl of seventeen. Mon Dieu! When I think of my exist- skirt. I felt her cold glance sweep over me, and my heart ence during that period, I recall a nightmare of chocolate stood still, Did she recognize me? and chewing gum; fluff and flummery; love letters and At last one day a pair of masculine feet came to a halt shopping and skylarking; and always, always, talk outside the window. Ah, the poetry of the trousers above f the loved one. He was an actor, remote, inaccessible ; + My wicked sister recovered herself magnificently.” comicbooks.com