tunity to join some tremendously virile bachelors out for a lark.
On the typical evening I have chosen to describe of my many passed in the Rialto, I happened to run across several youthful Lotharios waiting in front of a theatre for something "to turn up". Only one adolescent "male" out of three thousand in New York City adopts the role of quasi-public female-impersonator. A Rialto habitue therefore does not often run up against one. Judging by my own experience, a female-impersonator proves an attraction of the first order for young bloods having time hanging heavy on their hands. Thus this coterie—as many others have done—called out jubilantly on catching sight of me:
"Hello Jennie June!" "Hello sweetheart! That is what you want us to call you, isn't it?". . . . "Let me introduce you to Mr. A and Mr. B. They have never met a female-impersonator, and are dead anxious to see you take off a girl."
"And you are Jennie June, are you?" A and B exclaimed. "We have heard a lot about you and longed to meet you."
"Bon soir, messieurs," I replied. I had a liking for addressing chance-met beaux in a foreign tongue. I happened to be the foremost linguist among the university students.
"Bon soir, Jennie, bon soir!"
"Meine sehr geliebten junge Herren, wie geht's bei Ihnen?" I continued with a twinkle in my eye.
"Ganz gut," sounded the reply. New York is a Babel. On an hour's promenade in the Rialto, conversation in a score of languages would impinge on one's
