Gloria looked at her. She beheld an ungirlish frump of a thing with a lank but bulgy figure misclothed in woefully inappropriate garments, a muddy complexion, a sagging mouth, a drooping chin, a mass of deranged hair, and big, deep-gray, lusterless eyes, which implored her. The older woman considered and marveled. “My dear child,” she said gently, “are you sure it isn’t some man?” “I don’t care a darn for any man in the world,” returned the other with convincing promptitude. “It isn’t that. It’s just that I’m not—I don’t—” Her courage seemed to ebb out, but she gained command of herself and continued plaintively: “All I want is to be in the game as other girls play it—to have a little attention and maybe a box of candy or some flowers once in a while: not to have men look past me like a tree. It isn’t much to ask, is it? If you knew how tired I am of being just plain nobody! There’s a—a somebody inside here”—she thumped her narrow, ribby chest—“but I can’t get it out.” Rising lumpily to her feet, she stretched out hands of piteous and grotesque appeal. “Please, Gloria,” she prayed in a dwindling and saintly voice, “I want to raise just a little teeny bit of hell before I die.” A flash of sympathy and comprehension from the actress’s intent face answered this noble aspiration. “Why, you’re real, aren’t you!” she exclaimed. “Did you think I wasn’t even _that?_” returned the other reproachfully. “Not so many people are. It’s something, anyway. Are you going to be honest, as well?” “How, honest?” “With me. Are you going to be frank?” “Of course.” “Then tell me what started you on this.” A dismal sort of muddy flush overspread the girl’s features. Silently she drew from her pocket a full-page drawing from “Life” which she unfolded and handed to the other. She laid a finger on the central figure. “That’s Darcy,” said she. “Is it?” Gloria studied the illustration interestedly. “Who drew it?” “Holcomb Lee.” “That scrawl in the corner means Lee, does it? Is it drawn from life?” “Yes.” “What does Maud say to your sitting as model for her young man?” “Maud laughed,” said Darcy between her teeth. “Pussy, pussy!” commented Miss Greene. “That decided you to keep on, I suppose.” “Naturally.” “Well, the result justifies you.” “D’ you think it’s pretty?” “I most certainly do.” “And don’t you think it looks just the least lee-eetle bit like me?” pursued Darcy shyly. Gloria scrutinized the drawing again, and then the wistful face before her. With growing astonishment she realized the fundamental likeness. “More than that,” said she. “That young man knows how to see with his eyes.”