the back, and it fits down over her face like a mush bowl over Baby
Brother; but under the rim you could detect some chemical blonde hair
and a pair of pink ears ornamented with pearl pendants the size of
fruit knife handles. She has a complexion to match, one of the kind
that's laid on in layers, with the drugstore red only showing through
the whitewash in spots, and the lips touched up brilliant. Believe me,
it was some artistic makeup!

[Illustration: Believe me, it was some artistic makeup!]

Course, I frames this up for the friend; so I asks innocent, "Excuse
me, but when is little Miss Gladys comin'?"

"Why, I'm Gladys!" comes from between the carmine streaks.

I gawps at her, then at the maid, and then back at the Ziegfeld vision
again. "But, see here!" I goes on. "Mr. Robert he says how----"

"Yes, I know," she breaks in. "He 'phoned. The stupid old thing
couldn't come himself, and he's sent one of his young men. That's much
nicer. Torchy, didn't he say? How odd! But come along. Don't stand
there staring. Good-by, Marie. You must do my hair this way again
sometime."

And next thing I know I'm helpin' her into the car, while Martin tries
to smother a grin. "There you are!" says I, chuckin' her suitcase in
after her. "I--I guess I'll ride in front."

"What!" says she. "And leave me to take that long ride all alone?
I'll not do it. Come in here at once, or I'll not go a step! Come!"