HOPE, which is credited with various magic properties, had kindled a sickly sort of sub-glow in Darcy Cole’s pasty face as she arrived at Miss Greene’s address, to keep her appointment. Part of it subsided at sight of the indication that the elevator was still on strike. The remainder had vanished long before she had surmounted the four flights of stairs and stood panting dolorously before Gloria Greene. That composed person feigned polite surprise. “Why, what’s the matter, Darcy?” “Those awful—pouf!—stairs. How—whoof-uff!—d’ you ever—whoo-oo-oof!—do it?” “Two steps at a time,” explained the actress practically, “cuts the distance in half.” Darcy looked skeptical. “It would kill me,” she declared. “Very likely, as you are now. We’re going to change all that.” The gleam returned into Darcy’s big, dull eyes. “Yes?” said she eagerly. “How?” “I should say,” answered the actress with a carefully judicial air, “that you’d better start in by learning to give up.” “Give up what?” “Everything that makes life worth living.” “Is it a joke?” asked Darcy, dubiously. “Far from it. Food, for instance. You eat too much.” “Often I don’t get any luncheon at all.” “And too irregularly,” pursued the accuser. “You drink too much.” “Gloria! One cocktail before dinner,” was the indignant response. “And too regularly,” went on the relentless judge. “One is one too many for a girl with your complexion.” “Go on,” said Darcy with sullen resignation. “You sleep too much.” “Eight hours isn’t—” “You interrupt too much,” broke in the mentor severely. “You laze too much. You shirk and postpone too much. You nibble too much candy. When you feel below par you take a pill instead of a walk. Don’t you?” The girl stared. “How do you know all these things about me?” “Read ’em in your face, of course. And a lot more, besides.” “Nobody else ever read ’em there. Not even the doctor.” “Probably he has, but is too polite to tell you all he sees, or too cynical to believe that you’d take the trouble to do anything about it if he told you. Or perhaps he just doesn’t see it.” “Then how do you?” “I’m an expert, my dear young innocent. It’s part of my profession to be good-looking just as it is to keep well-read and well-dressed. And a lot harder!” “How can it be harder for you? You’re beautiful just naturally.” “I’m not beautiful. Your Holcomb Lee or any other artist with a real eye could reduce my face to a mere scrap-heap of ill-assorted features. I’m reasonably pleasant to look at because I work hard at the business of being just that. And I’m going to keep on being pleasant to look at for twenty good years yet if care and clothes will do it!” “Clothes help such a lot,” sighed the girl. “When are you going to help me with mine?” Gloria Greene looked disparagingly at the girl’s slack and flaccid body. “When you develop something to put ’em on,” said she curtly. “But I thought that if I had some nice clothes—”