In William Wallace Atterbury's magnificent Pennsylvania Station in Manhattan one evening last week occurred a passing commotion. Under the grey concourse lights were gathered some 200 persons, mostly girls, some young and lithe, some young and statuesque. They made weary travelers stop and stare. Surrounded by luggage, scented with flowers and perfume, bright with jewelry, they laughed, giggled, squeaked shrilly. Flashlights were taken. In the centre of the group stood a grey-haired, hook-nosed man puffing a big cigar. He was Florenz Ziegfeld. About him were the stars,...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
