“Few men chase a face that makes them ache,” added Barry, “even if the atmosphere in some sets smells of the stage door.... Tell me, beautiful Betsy, why you don’t canter about very much in your own gold-plated and exclusive social corral?” “Because,” she replied tranquilly, “I have a better time with the people I meet professionally ... mavericks from the gold-plated corral like you, for instance. You and Mike and Rosalind are more amusing than Sally Snitface or Percy Pinhead. And you’re far more moral.” “I wonder if I am moral,” mused Rosalind, shaking the cracked ice in her glass. “God, your mother and your native laziness incline you that way,” said Barry, gravely. “You’re better than good; you’re apathetic. Inertia will see you through.” “It takes energy to be a devil,” added Coltfoot. “Your perfect angel snoozes on a cloud. She’s too lazy to walk. That’s why she grew wings and why you take taxi-cabs, Rosalind.” “I do. I use my legs sufficiently on the stage, thank you. Also, I admit I like to snooze.” “Angel,” said Betsy from the mirror, “lend me your lipstick.” And, to Annan: “May I ascend to the rear room and make up properly?” “No, go into my room.” “But there’s no dressing table there----” starting to go. “You can’t go up there,” he repeated. “I mean it.” The girl turned: “Oh, is there a lady there?” she asked with that flippant freedom fashionable in certain sets, but mostly due to ignorance. “There is,” said Annan, coolly. Rosalind did not believe it, but she said carelessly: “That’s rather disgusting if it’s true.” “It’s true,” said Coltfoot. He sketched the story. Rosalind, who had been sagging picturesquely, sat up straight. Betsy listened incredulously at first, then with knitted brows. “I mean to ship her back to the old farm,” added Annan. “She needs a wet-nurse----” “I want to see her,” said Miss Blythe abruptly. “Well, she isn’t on exhibition,” returned Annan in a dry voice. “Can’t I see her?” “Put yourself in her place. Would _you_ feel comfortable, lying in the guest bed of a strange man? And would _you_ care to have a fashionably gowned girl come flying in to stare at you?” Betsy gazed at him scarcely listening. She turned to Rosalind: “If she’s got as much nerve as that, couldn’t you or I do something?” “All right,” nodded Rosalind. “You’d better let her go home,” said Annan. “She has pluck and perhaps talent, but she hasn’t the sense to take care of herself. You let her alone, Bet, do you hear?” Betsy’s nose went up. “Mind your business, Barry. If she works for me she needn’t worry.” “You’d better take her on, then,” said Rosalind. “Mom bangs me around so that I’m too groggy to look out for anybody’s morals except my own.” Betsy came up to Annan and put her hands on his shoulders: “Let me see her; I shan’t eat her. I might use her. She’s a sandy kid.” “She’s twenty. She told me so,” he retorted.