midnight
At twelve o'clock , five of near-Broadway 's best breed , in woolly anklets and wristlets and a great shaking of curls , execute the poodle-prance to half the encores of other days . May Deland , whose ripple of hip and droop of eyelid are too subtle for censorship , walks through her hula-hula dance , much of her abandon abandoned . A pair of _ apaches _ whirl for one hundred and twenty consecutive seconds to a great bang of cymbals and seventy-five dollars a week . At shortly before one Miss Hanna de Long , who renders ballads at one-hour intervals , rose from her table and companion in the obscure rear of the room , to finish the evening and her cycle with `` Darling , Keep the Grate-Fire Burning , '' sung in a contralto calculated to file into no matter what din of midnight dining . In something pink , silk , and conservatively V , she was a careful management 's last bland ingredient to an evening that might leave too Cayenne a sting to the tongue . At still something before one she had finished , and , without encore , returned to her table . `` Gawd ! ''