The dark little girl, still humming, looked over the articles “placed here for your convenience,” and picked up the scissors. Having cut off a very small hangnail with the air of one performing a perilous major operation, she seized and used the manicure buffer, and after that the eyebrow pencil. Mrs. Brady’s mind, hopefully calculating the tip, jumped and jumped again like a taximeter. “Oh, I know my baby loves me----” The dark little girl applied powder and lipstick belonging to herself. She examined the result searchingly in the mirror and sat back, satisfied. She cast some silver _Klink! Klink!_ into Mrs. Brady’s saucer, and half rose. Then, remembering something, she settled down again. The ensuing thirty seconds were spent by her in pulling off her platinum wedding ring, tying it in a corner of a lace handkerchief, and tucking the handkerchief down the bodice of her tight white velvet gown. “There!” she said. She swooped up her wrap and trotted toward the door, jewelled heels merrily twinkling. “’Cause there ain’t no maybe----” The door fell shut. Almost instantly it opened again, and another girl came in. A blonde, this. She was pretty in a round-eyed, babyish way; but Mrs. Brady, regarding her, mentally grabbed the spirits of ammonia bottle. For she looked terribly ill. The round eyes were dull, the pretty, silly little face was drawn. The thin hands, picking at the fastenings of a specious beaded bag, trembled and twitched. Mrs. Brady cleared her throat. “Can I do something for you, miss?” Evidently the blonde girl had believed herself alone in the dressing room. She started violently and glanced up, panic in her eyes. Panic, and something else. Something very like murderous hate--but for an instant only, so that Mrs. Brady, whose perceptions were never quick, missed it altogether. “A glass of water?” suggested Mrs. Brady. “No,” said the girl, “no.” She had one hand in the beaded bag now. Mrs. Brady could see it moving, causing the bag to squirm like a live thing, and the fringe to shiver. “Yes!” she cried abruptly. “A glass of water--please--you get it for me.” She dropped on to the couch. Mrs. Brady scurried to the water cooler in the corner, pressed the spigot with a determined thumb. Water trickled out thinly. Mrs. Brady pressed harder, and scowled, and thought, “Something’s wrong with this thing. I mustn’t forget, next time I see Mr. Costello----” When again she faced her patient, the patient was sitting erect. She was thrusting her clenched hand back into the beaded bag again. She took only a sip of the water, but it seemed to help her quite miraculously. Almost at once colour came to her cheeks, life to her eyes. She grew young again--as young as she was. She smiled up at Mrs. Brady. “Well!” she exclaimed. “What do you know about that!” She shook her honey-coloured head. “I can’t imagine what came over me.” “Are you better now?” inquired Mrs. Brady.