"Come now--quickly. I'm scared--" Lorelei begged, in tearful
tones.

"I'll drive right up in my chariot of flame; I was going out, and
it's waiting while I kalsomine my face. Are you SURE everything is
good and dirty? Goody! We'll make the prop footman work for once
in his life--no, we'll do it ourselves. Good-by."

In a surprisingly short time the Palace Garden star came flying up
the stairs, scorning such delays as elevators. She flung herself
upon her friend with a hug and a smack, crying, "Hurrah! Madame
Sans Gene has come to do the scrubbing."

Yet she hardly seemed dressed for house-cleaning. A tremendous
floppy hat crowned her flaxen head; she was tightly incased, like
a chrysalis in its cocoon, in a delicate creation of pink; her
gloves were long and tight, and her high-heeled boots were longer
and tighter. Nevertheless she promptly proceeded with a reckless
discard of her finery--a process she had begun on her way up-
stairs, like a country boy on his approach to a swimming-hole.

She paused in the center of the one passably sized room, and her
piquant face was flushed with animation.

"How perfectly corking!" she exclaimed. "How BEAUTIFUL!"

"Do you think so?" Lorelei asked, doubtfully.

"It's just dandy--so cozy and secluded and--shady. Why, it's a
darling place! Not a sound, is there? Gee, what a place to sleep!"