Jerry pulled off her green bandeau. “You pinned it on the wall that time—It’s my only regular calling now. I hold these receptions four times a year—in all of the four off-season intervals, when the stores are marking down—the mid-summer sales are on now, you know—and the newly and oozily rich, like our friend Mrs. Bowman, don’t want to demean themselves by going to markdowns—yet want to go right on spending. It gives ’em a thrill to come here to private exhibits of ‘advance models,’ where they get individual attention from a jazzy person who looks like a double life. Isn’t my make-up temperamental?” And she waved her sandals. “Jerry, I think you’re—wonderful. Were you—were you ever an actress?” The downward quirk to Jerry’s mouth again. “No. I could have been, couldn’t I?” Joy was amazed at the depth of her disappointment. She had been cherishing the exciting belief that that was Jerry’s “past,” for so long. “I like designing and sewing things together,” said Jerry; “it’s the only kind of work I _do_ like. If I liked it better than having a good time, I’d do it all the year around. As it is, whenever I see a dress of good material marked down because of lack of style, I buy it—the same with remnants of materials. Then from time to time I get an idea on a way to change the dress so it will look like Irene Castle improved on. I cut it all over, probably—drape it on Sal, who does an imitation of Mrs. Jarley’s Wax Works while I polish it off. So when the time comes for me to call it a week and I phone announcements to my patrons—telling each of ’em I’m especially calling _them_ instead of sending ’em a printed slip—I have quite a little collection of made-over mark-downs to parade. Sal shows ’em off well, too—that girl’s got style—but if she ever was cast on a desert island without a rouge-box and a marcel-iron and a few other little things I’d hate to look at her. Put her in clothes, and she crashes through. An old friend of mine used to say, and it’s true any way you look at it: ‘Without clothes, you can’t get very far.’” “But how about that purple negligée?” “That was pure profiteering. I got into the mood of roasting the old marshmallow; the negligée was handy, you dropped in—Say, tell me about the visit. I haven’t half looked at you yet.” They were in the living room, and Joy without answering went over to the cellarette. With a leap, Jerry was there before her. “Listen here, Joy—you’ve been without it for several days now. Don’t you think it’s a good time to begin to stop?” “Why? You drink three times as much as I do——” “I’m hopeless. You’re not. You’ve just started in, and you can stop—easily.” Joy considered the lights and shadows of the glass in her hand. “I wonder—if it’s really doing me any harm.” She drank it reflectively, while Jerry went back to her seat with a shrug. “I—I cried a long time, the first night down at the seashore. Jerry, do you suppose this had anything to do with it?”