In all that city of courageous under-dogs and fate-fighters, there was not one who pretended to careless contentment with a chin so high as Tootles.

He half carried her into the cab, trying with a queer blundering sympathy to soothe and quiet her.

And he had almost succeeded by the time they reached the brownstone house of sitters, bedrooms and baths, gas stoves, cubby-holes, the persistent reek of onions, cigarettes and hot cheese.

The hysteria of the artistic temperament, or the natural exaggeration of an artificial life, had worn itself out for the time being.

Rather pathetic little sobs had taken its place, it was with a face streaked with the black stuff from her eyelashes that Tootles turned quickly to Martin at the foot of the narrow, dirty staircase.
"Let's go up quiet," she said.