Overnight, Mimosa Beach became famous, and infested with reporters and color photographers, all male. There would have been a mass exodus if there had been any place to go. But other communities, fearing that their womenfolk would "catch" the greenness, like measles, refused to let them in. Besides, in Mimosa Beach they had the dubious comfort of all being alike, while elsewhere they would have been freaks. There was so little they could do to make themselves look attractive. The cosmetics they had or that were available were all wrong. But they did the best they could, though there was no hiding that ghastly green complexion. "What a shame your hair isn't red," Dora said one day to Helen. "Amy Olson, now, her hair really goes with green skin." Cocking her head to one side, she studied the younger woman intently. "Your hair--that mousy brown--wonder if we couldn't touch it up just a _wee_ bit?" Helen clenched her teeth against the coy, criticizing voice. "I'm not the flamboyant type," she said. Dora was as green as Helen by this time, and it certainly wasn't a bit more becoming to her. She seemed to be enjoying the publicity, though. Besides, it gave her a good excuse for not leaving. If only the greenness had come before Dora--they might have been spared _one_ calamity! * * * * * Four girls moved into the house next to the Raymonds, the last house in the row. Neither the Raymonds nor Dora noticed that they had moved in; they came so quietly. The houses in the court were furnished and they must have paid the rent, obtained the keys, and walked in, all settled as soon as they closed the door behind them. It wasn't until they rang the Raymonds' doorbell in the early evening that anyone in the household was aware of them. "We move next door," one of them said brightly to Helen when she answered the door. "We come see you, get acquainted. We come in?" "Of course," Helen said, and they trooped in. "We're the Raymonds, and this is my cousin, Dora Hastings." The new neighbor who had spoken first pointed to her companions, one by one. "Patricia Pontiac," she said. "Clara Ford. Mary Maroon. Me," poking a thumb at her own midriff, "Jack Jones." "Jack Jones?" Helen repeated. "That's a man's name." "Man?" the girl asked blankly. "Man!" Robert said impatiently. "Like me." The four girls noticed him for the first time, and then they saw Bobby. They stared at the two of them, their mouths slightly open, their eyes wide with horror. They drew closer to each other, as if for protection, and shivered. Robert and Bobby looked at each other in bewildered embarrassment. "My husband and son," Helen said tartly. Did these odd creatures think all males were wolves, including eight-year-old Bobby? "That--that color!" Mary Maroon quavered. "Not green!" "Only dames are green," Bobby scornfully said. "Imagine!" Dora tittered nervously. "Afraid of Robert and Bobby!"