No shrinking violet about Gladys, and as I climbs in I shakes loose the
last of that kindergarten dope I'd been primed with. I'll admit I was
some fussed for awhile too, and I expect I does the dummy act, sittin'
there gazin' into the limousine mirror where she's reflected vivid. I
was tryin' to size her up and decide whether she really was one of the
chicken ballet, or only a high school imitation. I'm so busy at it
that I overlooks the fact that she has the same chance of watchin' me.

"Well?" says she, as we swings into Central Park. "I trust you
approve?"

"Eh?" says I, comin' out of the trance. "Oh, I get you now. You're
waitin' for the applause. Let's see, are you on at the Winter Garden,
or is it the Casino roof?"

"Now don't be rude," says she. "Whatever made you think I'd been on
the stage?"

"I was only judgin' by the get-up," says I. "It's fancy, all right."

"Pooh!" says she. "I've merely had my hair done the new way. I think
it's perfectly dear too. There's just one little touch, though, that
Marie didn't quite get. I wonder if I couldn't--you'll not care if I
try, will you?"

"Oh, don't mind me," says I.

She didn't. She'd already yanked out three or four hatpins and has
pried off the zippy lid.