“Oh, oh, oh,” smiled the tall young woman, “I wouldn’t do that!” Amy wiped her eyes with what might well have been one of the Christmas handkerchiefs, and confronted her friend. “Well, what _would_ you do, Claire? If you were I?” “I’d forget it,” said Claire, “and have a good time. I’d kiss somebody myself. You’ve no idea how much better you’d feel!” “I don’t do----” Amy began indignantly; but as the door behind her opened and a third young woman--red-headed, earringed, exquisite--lilted in, she changed her tone. “Oh, hello!” she called sweetly, beaming at the newcomer via the mirror. “We were wondering what had become of you!” The red-headed girl, smiling easily back, dropped her cigarette on the floor and crushed it out with a silver-shod toe. “Tom and I were talking to ‘Fiddle’ Baer,” she explained. “He’s going to play ‘Clap Yo’ Hands’ next, because it’s my favourite. Lend me a comb, will you, somebody?” “There’s a comb there,” said Claire, indicating Mrs. Brady’s business comb. “But imagine using it!” murmured the red-headed girl. “Amy, darling, haven’t you one?” Amy produced a tiny comb from her rhinestone purse. “Don’t forget to bring it when you come,” she said, and stood up. “I’m going on out, I want to tell Tom something.” She went. The red-headed young woman and the tall black-chiffon one were alone, except for Mrs. Brady. The red-headed one beaded her incredible lashes. The tall one, the one called Claire, sat watching her. Presently she said, “Sylvia, look here.” And Sylvia looked. Anybody, addressed in that tone, would have. “There is one thing,” Claire went on quietly, holding the other’s eyes, “that I want understood. And that is, ‘_Hands off!_’ Do you hear me?” “I don’t know what you mean.” “You do know what I mean!” The red-headed girl shrugged her shoulders. “Amy told you she saw us, I suppose.” “Precisely. And,” went on Claire, gathering up her possessions and rising, “as I said before, you’re to keep away.” Her eyes blazed sudden white-hot rage. “Because, as you very well know, he belongs to _me_,” she said, and departed, slamming the door. * * * * * Between eleven o’clock and one Mrs. Brady was very busy indeed. Never for more than a moment during those two hours was the dressing room empty. Often it was jammed, full to overflowing with curled cropped heads, with ivory arms and shoulders, with silk and lace and chiffon, with legs. The door flapped in and back, in and back. The mirrors caught and held--and lost--a hundred different faces. Powder veiled the dressing table with a thin white dust; cigarette stubs, scarlet at the tips, choked the ash-receiver. Dimes and quarters clattered into Mrs. Brady’s saucer--and were transferred to Mrs. Brady’s purse. The original seventy cents remained. That much, and no more, would Mrs. Brady gamble on the integrity of womankind.