“Yes. Oh, yes. I’m better now. You see,” said the blonde girl confidentially, “we were at the theatre, my boy friend and I, and it was hot and stuffy--I guess that must have been the trouble.” She paused, and the ghost of her recent distress crossed her face. “God! I thought that last act _never_ would end!” she said. While she attended to her hair and complexion, she chattered gaily to Mrs. Brady, chattered on with scarcely a stop for breath, and laughed much. She said, among other things, that she and her “boy friend” had not known one another very long, but that she was “ga-ga” about him. “He is about me, too,” she confessed. “He thinks I’m grand.” She fell silent then, and in the looking-glass her eyes were shadowed, haunted. But Mrs. Brady, from where she stood, could not see the looking-glass; and half a minute later the blonde girl laughed and began again. When she went out she seemed to dance out on little winged feet; and Mrs. Brady, sighing, thought it must be nice to be young ... and happy like that. The next arrivals were two. A tall, extremely smart young woman in black chiffon entered first, and held the door open for her companion; and the instant the door was shut, she said, as though it had been on the tip of her tongue for hours, “Amy, what under the sun _happened_?” Amy, who was brown-eyed, brown-bobbed-haired, and patently annoyed about something, crossed to the dressing table and flopped into a chair before she made reply. “Nothing,” she said wearily then. “That’s nonsense!” snorted the other. “Tell me. Was it something she said? She’s a tactless ass, of course. Always was.” “No, not anything she said. It was----” Amy bit her lip. “All right! I’ll tell you. Before we left your apartment I just happened to notice that Tom had disappeared. So I went to look for him--I wanted to ask him if he’d remembered to tell the maid where we were going--Skippy’s subject to croup, you know, and we always leave word. Well, so I went into the kitchen, thinking Tom might be there mixing cocktails--and there he was--and there _she_ was!” The full red mouth of the other young woman pursed itself slightly. Her arched brows lifted. “Well?” Her matter-of-factness appeared to infuriate Amy. “He was _kissing_ her!” she flung out. “Well?” said the other again. She chuckled softly and patted Amy’s shoulder, as if it were the shoulder of a child. “You’re surely not going to let _that_ spoil your whole evening? Amy _dear_! Kissing may once have been serious and significant--but it isn’t nowadays. Nowadays, it’s like shaking hands. It means nothing.” But Amy was not consoled. “I hate her!” she cried desperately. “Red-headed _thing_! Calling me ‘darling’ and ‘honey,’ and s-sending me handkerchiefs for C-Christmas--and then sneaking off behind closed doors and k-kissing my h-h-husband....” At this point Amy quite broke down, but she recovered herself sufficiently to add with venom, “I’d like to slap her!”