She and Maud wished to know, not without asperity, first why Darcy was getting her trousseau in advance of the season; next, why she was wearing it, item by item. Darcy was wearing the unaccustomed finery for a perfectly sound and feminine reason which she did not feel called upon to expound for the enlightenment of the two fiancées. She felt taller, straighter, and more independent in it. Moreover, she found it a business asset. Palpably affected by the richness and variety of her wardrobe, B. Riegel had proffered a guarantee basis of work which assured her future income. Thus the clothes bade fair to pay for themselves. But on alternate afternoons, Darcy, faithful to her training, garbed herself in rusty sweater, short skirt, and shapeless shoes, and did her stunt through Central Park. Her term at Andy’s academy having expired, she had taken on a new schedule of two hours per week: that being all, her preceptor assured her, that was needed for the preservation of her fitness “to jump in the ring and put ’em up with the Big Feller himself at the clang of the bell.” A slight exaggeration, but to Darcy, a grateful one. With ever-growing approval, Gloria saw the girl accomplish that distinctively feminine feat known as “settling into your clothes.” “My dear,” she remarked one day when the two had come in from a walk, “if Monty Veyze could see us together now, I wouldn’t have a chance with him.” Darcy grabbed and hugged her. “You’re talking nonsense, and you know it. No man in the world would look at me if you were in the same block.” “Wouldn’t they!” retorted the actress ungrammatically. “I’d hate to put it to the test of a regular constituted jury.” “I’d have to bar Mr. Remsen from the jury box,” smiled Darcy. “Have you seen Jack again?” “Ran into him, plop, on Fifth Avenue yesterday.” “Were you in your best bib-and-tucker?” “The black-and-white check.” “Did he look through you?” asked the actress. “N-not exactly.” “Did he look past you?” asked the actress, “N-o-o-o.” “Well, did he look at you?” she persisted. “Yes. But he didn’t know me.” “I’m sure he didn’t,” chuckled Gloria. “Didn’t you bow to him?” she added. “Next time you meet a nice young man like Jack Remsen, you march straight up to him and take him by the beard—” “He hasn’t got a beard.” “—metaphorically speaking, and ask him if he isn’t ashamed of himself for not remembering you. He will be. Oh, never fear he will be!” Darcy pursed her red lips up to a funny little assumption of prudery. “He’d think me a forward young hussy.” “Let him. You’ve been backward long enough.” “I—I—I haven’t really got used to—to the new feeling yet,” said the girl shyly.