It was very puzzling, but Jac would not waste time thinking of such a caricature of a man as he of the many whiskers. She turned back into the kitchen and broke off her meditations by kicking a box across the floor. It smashed against the wall. Jac sat down to think, and stared gloomily straight before her. Her throat swelled and in her heart was that feeling of infinite age which comes upon women at all periods of their life, but most of all during the interim when a girl knows that she is mature and the rest of the world has not yet found it out. “Why was I made like this?” said Jac miserably. And from within a still, small voice that was _not_ conscience answered her. “Aw,” said the voice, “quit kiddin’ yourself!” “Why,” repeated Jac dolorously, “was I tied to such a face?” “You might as well be askin’,” said the voice, “how the colors are painted on a pinto.” “Them colors never rub out.” “Neither will your face.” “It’s awful.” “It is.” She stood in front of the speckled mirror. “There’s something wrong with the way I fix my hair,” she muttered. It was tied so tightly that it pulled up the skin of her forehead and raised her eyebrows to a look of continual plaintiveness. “There’s _certainly_ something wrong with the way I do my hair!” “Is that all that’s wrong with your face?” whispered the voice. “My hair is red,” said Jac. “Like paint,” said the voice. “There’s no help?” “None!” To escape from this merciless dialogue, Jac went back to her post of vantage. The square shoulders of Maurie Gordon were just disappearing through the outer door. All the others were gone, with the exception of her father, her brother Harry, and the man of many whiskers. The last was hardly to be considered as a human being. She felt practically alone with her family, so she entered the dining-room and sat on the edge of the table swinging her feet. “Harry,” she said, “d’you see anything the matter with the way I fix my hair?” Her brother glanced at her with unseeing eyes. The man of many whiskers stopped stirring his coffee and glanced up with the keen twinkle which Jac had seen before. She turned her shoulder upon him. “Throw me your tobacco, pa,” said Harry. “Did you hear me ask you a question?” said Jac fiercely. Harry rolled his cigarette before he answered. “Don’t get so sore you rope an’ tie yourself. What did you say?” “I asked you if you was goin’ to the dance at Bridewell.” The stranger chuckled softly. “Say, what’s eatin’ you, Whiskers?” snapped Jac, but without turning. “Sure I’m going,” said Harry. “It’s going to be a big bust.” “What girl are you takin’?” “Nobody. I’ll find plenty to dance with when I get there.” Jac blinked her eyes once, twice, and again. “Why not take me?” The cigarette fell from Harry’s lips. “What the--” he began. “Say, Jac, are you sick?” The ache came in Jac’s throat again. Her face changed color and the freckles across the bridge of her nose stood out with a startling distinctness.