“But—­but, Mother,” says Gladys, “you’re never going to let people see you like that, are you?”

“Why not, my dear?” says Mother.

“But your face—­ugh!” says Gladys.

“Oh, bother!” says Mother.  “I suppose you’d like to have me look like Aunt Martha?”

Gladys stares at her for awhile with her eyes wide and set, like she was watchin’ somethin’ horrible that she couldn’t turn away from, and then she goes to pieces in a weepin’ fit of her own.  Nobody interferes, and right in the midst of it she breaks off, marches over to a wicker porch table where the mirror and washcloth had been left, props the glass up against a vase, and goes to work.  First off she sheds the pearl earrings.

At that Mother sits down opposite and follows suit with her jet danglers.

Next Gladys mops off the scenic effect.

Marjorie produces another washcloth, and Mother makes a clean sweep too.

Gladys snatches out a handful of gold hairpins, destroys the turban twist that Marie had spent so much time buildin’ up, and knots ’er hair simple in the back.

Mother caps this by liftin’ off the blond transformation.

And as I left for a stroll around the grounds they’d both got back to lookin’ more or less nice and natural.  They had gone to a close clinch and was sobbin’ affectionate on each other’s shoulders.

Later the tea got under way and went on as such things generally do, with folks comin’ and goin’, and a buzz of chin music that you could hear clear out to the gate, where I was waitin’ with Martin until we should get the signal to start back.

I didn’t know just how it would be, but I suspected I might be invited to ride in front on the home trip.  I’d made up my mind to start there, anyway.  But, say, when the time comes and Vee trips out to the limousine, where I’m holdin’ the door open and lookin’ sheepish, I takes a chance on a glance into them gray eyes of hers.  I got a chill too.  It’s only for a second, though.  She was doing her best to look cold and distant; but behind that I could spot a smile.  So I changes the programme.

“Say,” says I, followin’ her in and shuttin’ the door, “wa’n’t that kid Gladys the limit, though?”

“Why,” says she, givin’ me the quizzin’ stare, “I thought you had just loads of fun coming up.”

“Hearing which cruel words,” says I, “our hero strode moodily into his castle.”

Vee snickers at that.  “And locked the haughty maiden out in the cold, I suppose?” says she.

“If it was you,” says I, “I’d take the gate off the hinges.”

“Silly!” says she.  “Do you know, Gladys looked real sweet afterward.”

“I’ll bet the reform don’t last, though,” says I.  “But that was a great scheme of yours for persuadin’ her to scrub off the stencil work.  There’s so many of that kind nowadays, maybe the idea would be worth copyrightin’.  What do you think, Vee?”