“I’ll report you!” she snapped, and was sorry at once.

Julia turned again, walked down the corridor and round the corner in the direction of two-eighteen.

Long after Julia had disappeared Sadie Corn stared after her—­miserable, regretful.

Julia knocked once at the door of two-eighteen and turned the knob before a high, shrill voice cried: 

“Come!”

Two-eighteen was standing in the centre of the floor in scant satin knickerbockers and tight brassiere.  The blazing folds of a cerise satin gown held in her hands made a great, crude patch of colour in the neutral-tinted bedroom.  The air was heavy with scent.  Hair, teeth, eyes, fingernails—­Two-eighteen glowed and glistened.  Chairs and bed held odds and ends.

“Where’ve you been, girl?” shrilled Two-eighteen.  “I’ve been waiting like a fool!  I told you to be here in fifteen minutes.”

“My stop-watch isn’t working right,” replied Julia impudently and took the cerise satin gown in her two hands.

She made a ring of the gown’s opening, and through that cerise frame her eyes met those of Two-eighteen.

“Careful of my hair!” Two-eighteen warned her, and ducked her head to the practised movement of Julia’s arms.  The cerise gown dropped to her shoulders without grazing a hair.  Two-eighteen breathed a sigh of relief.  She turned to face the mirror.

“It starts at the left, three hooks; then to the centre; then back four—­under the arm and down the middle again.  That chiffon comes over like a drape.”

She picked up a buffer from the litter of ivory and silver on the dresser and began to polish her already glittering nails, turning her head this way and that, preening her neck, biting her scarlet lips to deepen their crimson, opening her eyes wide and half closing them languorously.  Julia, down on her knees in combat with the trickiest of the hooks, glanced up and saw.  Two-eighteen caught the glance in the mirror.  She stopped her idle polishing and preening to study the glowing and lovely little face that looked up at her.  A certain queer expression grew in her eyes—­a speculative, eager look.

“Tell me, little girl,” she said, “What do you do round here?”

Julia turned from the mirror to the last of the hooks, her fingers working nimbly.

“Me?  My regular job is working.  Don’t jerk, please.  I’ve fastened this one three times.”

“Working!” laughed Two-eighteen, fingering the diamonds at her throat.  “What does a pretty girl like you want to do that for?”

“Hook off here,” said Julia.  “Shall I sew it?”

“Pin it!” snapped Two-eighteen.

Julia’s tidy nature revolted.

“It’ll take just a minute to catch it with thread—­”

Two-eighteen whirled about in one of the sudden hot rages of her kind: 

“Pin it, you fool!  Pin it!  I told you I was late!”

Julia paused a moment, the red surging into her face.  Then in silence she knelt and wove a pin deftly in and out.  When she rose from her knees her face was quite white.