A huge blot of orange and a thin streak of lavender paused on the
other side of the palms. Johnny wondered to see these two enemies
together, but no man could know the satisfaction they took in it.

"The violet booth," read the big blot of orange, adjusting her gold
lorgnette to the bridge of her globular nose and consulting her
catalogue. "Friday afternoon: Polly Parsons and Mrs. Arthur
Follison. That is not Mrs. Follison in the booth, is it?"

"Oh, no, Mrs. Guff!" protested the thin streak of lavender in a
rasping little lavender voice. "Mrs. Follison, though not a doll-
face--indeed, far from it--is of most aristocratic bearing."

"I suppose that person in the booth, then, is the adopted actress,"
guessed Mrs. Guff. "Any one can tell that's beauty and movement of
the professional type."

Johnny looked at Polly with hasty concern, but that young lady was
enjoying the joke on Constance and gripped his arm for silence.

"One can quite understand how poor Billy Parsons might become
infatuated with her doll-face," returned Miss Purry pityingly, since
she was herself entirely free from the crime of doll-facedness; "but
that the Parsons should adopt such a common person merely because
Billy died before he could marry her was inconsiderate of the rest
of our class."

"The artfulness of her!" exclaimed the thick one, lorgnetting the
graceful Constance with a fishy eye as the temporary flower girl