milky liquids, and boxes of rosy pastes, and pencils that made arched
and inky lines; beings redolent of bitter almond, and violet toilette
water; beings in doubtful corsets and green silk petticoats perfect as
to accordion-plaited flounce, but showing slits and tatters farther
up; beings jealously guarding their ten inches of mirror space and
consenting to move for no one; ladies who had come all the way from
Texas and who insisted on telling about it, despite a mouthful of
hairpins; doubtful sisters who called one dearie and required to be
hooked up; distracted mothers with three small children who wiped
their hands on your shirt-waist.

[Illustration: "'You can't treat me with your life's history. I'm
going in'"]

So it was that Emma McChesney, hatted and veiled by 5:45, saw the
curtains of the berth opposite rent asunder to disclose the rumpled,
shapeless figure of Miss Blanche LeHaye. The queen of burlesque bore
in her arms a conglomerate mass of shoes, corset, purple skirt, bag
and green-plumed hat. She paused to stare at Emma McChesney's trim,
cool preparedness.

"You must have started to dress as soon's you come in last night. I
never slep' a wink till just about half a hour ago. I bet I ain't got
more than eleven minutes to dress in. Ain't this a scorcher!"

When the train stopped at North Bend, Emma McChesney, on her way out,
collided with a vision in a pongee duster, rose-colored chiffon veil,
chamois gloves, and plumed hat. Miss Blanche LeHaye had made the most
of her eleven minutes. Her baggage attended to, Emma McChesney climbed
into a hotel 'bus. It bore no other passengers. From her corner in the