THE Biograph studio was in the loft of a ramshackle building on Twenty-sixth Street, near Broadway. Minnie felt at home in this neighborhood; it was similar to her own noisily crowded settlement. How differently she had approached the studio in Fort Lee; it seemed far out in the country and the country frightened her. The bare branches of the trees, denuded by the winds of late autumn, throw fantastic shadows on the dusty roads; the quiet had some of the awesomeness of a darkened church. But here it was different. Life exploded at one's elbow; children scuttled across the street like black beetles; peddlers shouted their wares; voices rose shrill to answer other voices; the gongs on cars clanged; horses' hoofs pounded on the cobbles; men and women with tense, hard faces hurried past on their way to work. Here and there at the dark entrances of office or factory buildings they were herded together for a moment, then, as if swept by a gust of wind, disappeared.
Minnie paused in the doorway of the studio, waiting for the elevator. Others swarmed in and soon the hallway was jammed by the onrush of people. Minnie saw many familiar types; eager, aggressive faces; young, timid, appealing faces; white and terrible faces. When the elevator door opened she sprang inside. She was hemmed in by the frantic crowd all fighting not to lose one of the minutes which seemed so
