“N—not as well.” “I should think likely. You lop.” “I—I can’t help it.” “Nonsense! You slump.” Darcy’s lips slackened petulantly down at the corners. Like a flash, Gloria transfixed the offending mouth with two leveled fingers. “You peeve,” she accused. Darcy continued to peeve. Also she sniffled. “Your chin is flabby,” pursued the inexorable critic. “Your mouth is fishy. Your eyes are bleary. Your skin is muddy. You walk like a duck, and you stand like a bag. And if you cry I’ll quit you here, now, and forever.” With a mighty struggle, Darcy choked back her emotions. “I suppose the Lord gave me my face,” she defended herself sulkily. “Don’t libel your Maker. The Lord gave you _a_ face. See Exhibit B.” “I can’t help it if—” “Of course you could have helped it! What you’ve done to your face is a crime, Darcy Cole! You ought to be arrested! Not to mention what you’ve done to your figure. I shouldn’t be surprised,” she added as the doorbell rang, “if that were the police now, come to hale you away to judgment. Sit still,” she commanded as Darcy, suddenly conscious of her exotic costume, looked about for a way of escape. The door opened, not to the police, but to a visitor who was presented to the shrinking Miss Cole as Mr. Thomas Harmon. Mr. Harmon displayed himself as a stocky man with very cheerful, bright brown eyes, reassuringly deferential manners, and a curious effect of carrying his sturdy frame as if it weighed nothing at all. Darcy mentally observed that he looked as fit in his way as did Gloria in hers. Already she was beginning to take note of physical condition. “Have I interrupted a rehearsal?” asked Mr. Harmon. “No,” said Gloria. “That is, yes.” “That’s a fair choice,” remarked Mr. Harmon magnanimously. “I’ll take yes. Am I right, Miss Cole?” “It doesn’t matter. We’d finished,” murmured Darcy confusedly. “I’ve promised Mr. Harmon,” Gloria explained, turning to her, “to help him choose an anniversary present for his sister. It won’t take more than an hour. Amuse yourself until I come back.” On the stairway outside, Gloria, intent upon her new purpose, addressed her companion. “Tom, what do you think of her?” “Of whom?” “Little Darcy Cole.” “Oh”—vaguely—“I don’t know.” Gloria sighed. “Why the effect of hopelessness?” inquired Tom Harmon. “Oh, nothing. Only, you don’t seem to use your eyes much.” “I was using them to the best of purposes,” declared Mr. Harmon indignantly. “Considering that I haven’t set them on you for nearly a month, you can’t expect me to waste time on casual flappers in fancy-dress costumes. Be fair, Gloria.” “Darcy isn’t a casual flapper.” “What is she, then? A coming genius?” “A reigning beauty and heart-wrecker of the future.” “Good _Lord!_” said Mr. Harmon with such fervor that Gloria sighed again. “Couldn’t you see anything in her, Tom?” she asked appealingly.