1.

　　On the boardwalk at Atlantic City, that much-enduring seashore resortwhich has been the birthplace of so many musical plays, there standsan all-day and all-night restaurant, under the same management andoffering the same hospitality as the one in Columbus Circle at whichJill had taken her first meal on arriving in New York. At least, itshospitality is noisy during the waking and working hours of the day;but there are moments when it has an almost cloistral peace, and thecustomer, abashed by the cold calm of its snowy marble and the silentgravity of the white-robed attendants, unconsciously lowers his voiceand tries to keep his feet from shuffling, like one in a temple. Themembers of the chorus of "The Rose of America," dropping in by onesand twos at six o'clock in the morning about two weeks after theevents recorded in the last chapter, spoke in whispers and gave theirorders for breakfast in a subdued undertone.

　　The dress-rehearsal had just dragged its weary length to a close. Itis the custom of the dwellers in Atlantic City, who seem to liveentirely for pleasure, to attend a species of vaudevilleperformance--incorrectly termed a sacred concert--on Sunday nights:

　　and it had been one o'clock in the morning before the concert scenerycould be moved out of the theatre and the first act set of "The Roseof America" moved in. And, as by some unwritten law of the drama nodress-rehearsal can begin without a delay of at least an hour and ahalf, the curtain had not gone up on Mr Miller's opening chorus tillhalf past two. There had been dress-parades, conferences,interminable arguments between the stage-director and a mysteriousman in shirtsleeves about the lights, more dress-parades, furtherconferences, hitches with regard to the sets, and another outbreak ofdebate on the subject of blues, ambers, and the management of the"spot," which was worked by a plaintive voice, answering to the nameof Charlie, at the back of the family circle. But by six o'clock acomplete, if ragged, performance had been given, and the chorus, whohad partaken of no nourishment since dinner on the previous night,had limped off round the corner for a bite of breakfast before goingto bed.

　　They were a battered and a draggled company, some with dark circlesbeneath their eyes, others blooming with the unnatural scarlet of themake-up which they had been too tired to take off. The Duchess,haughty to the last, had fallen asleep with her head on the table.

　　The red-headed Babe was lying back in her chair, staring at theceiling. The Southern girl blinked like an owl at the morningsunshine out on the boardwalk.

　　The Cherub, whose triumphant youth had brought her almost freshthrough a sleepless night, contributed the only remark made duringthe interval of waiting for the meal.

　　"The fascination of a thtage life! Why girls leave home!" She lookedat her reflection in the little mirror of her vanity-bag. "It _is_ aface!" she murmured reflectively. "But I should hate to have to goaround with it long!"A sallow young man, with the alertness peculiar to those who work onthe night-shifts of restaurants, dumped a tray down on the table witha clatter. The Duchess woke up. Babe took her eyes off the ceiling.