In such wise she rambled on as a bewildered but unresisting girl
surrendered herself to her wiles and hands.

When Katie returned from a call to the telephone it was to find Ann
rubbing her hand over a pretty ankle adorned with the most silky of
silken hose. "Likes them," Katie made of it, at sight of the down-turned
face; "always wanted them--maybe never had them. Moral--If you want
people to believe in you, give them something they don't need, but would
like to have."

She did her hair for her, chatting all the while about ways of doing
hair, exclaiming about the beauty of Ann's and planning things she was
going to do with it. "Were I as proud of all my works as I am of this, I
might be a more self-respecting person," she said, finally passing Ann
the hand mirror as if the girl's one concern in life was to see whether
she approved of the plaiting of those soft glossy braids.

And unmistakably she did approve. "It does look nice this way, doesn't
it?" she agreed, looking up at Katie with a shy eagerness.

When at last Ann had been made ready, when Katie had slipped on the long
loosely fitted white coat, had adjusted the big veil with just the right
touch of sophisticated carelessness, as she surveyed the work of her
hands her excitement could with difficulty contain itself. "She _is_
Ann," she gloated. "Her father _was_ a great artist. Her mother simply
couldn't _be_ anything but a great musician. And she's lived all her life
in--Italy, I think it is. Oh--I know! She's from Florence. Why she
couldn't be any place but from Florence--and she doesn't know anything
about bridge and scandal and pay and promotion--but she knows all