‘Dinna preach, or we’ll no’ ‘gree,’ said Liz almost rudely.  ’Let’s look at the hats in this window.  I’ll hae a new one next pay.  Look at that crimson velvet wi’ the black wings; it’s awfu’ neat, an’ only six-and-nine.  D’ye no’ think it wad set me?’

‘Very likely.  You look very nice always,’ answered Gladys truthfully, and the sincere compliment pleased Liz, though she did not say so.

’Well, look, it’s ten meenits past aicht.  We were to meet Teen in the Trongate at the quarter.  We’ll need to turn back.’

‘And where will we go after that?’ inquired Gladys.  ’The shops are beginning to shut.’

’You’ll see.  We’ve a ploy on.  I want to gie ye a treat.  Ye dinna get mony o’ them.’

She linked her arm with friendly familiarity into that of Gladys, and began to chatter on again, chiefly of dress, which was dear to her soul.  Her talk was not interesting to Gladys, who was singularly free from that feminine weakness, love of fine attire.  No doubt she owed this to her upbringing, having lived always alone with her father, and knowing very few of her own sex.  But she listened patiently to Liz’s minute account of the spring clothes she had in view, and even tried to make some suggestions on her own account.

It was with something of a relief, however, that she beheld among the crowd at last the slight figure and pale countenance of Teen.

‘Guid-e’enin’ to ye,’ Teen said in her monotonous voice, and without a smile or brightening of her face.  ’Fine dry nicht.  We’re late, Liz, ten minutes.’

‘Oh, it doesna matter.  We’ll mak’ a sensation,’ said Liz, with a grim smile.  ‘A’ the same, we’d better hurry up an’ get oor sixpenceworth.’

‘Where are we going?’ asked Gladys rather doubtfully.

‘Oh, ye’ll see.  I promised ye a treat,’ answered Liz; and the trio quickened their steps until they came to a narrow entrance, illuminated, however, by a blaze of gas jets, and adorned about the doorway with sundry bills and pictures of music-hall artistes.

Before Gladys could utter the least protest, she was whisked in, paid for at the box, and hurried up-stairs into a brilliantly-lighted hall, the atmosphere of which, however, was reeking with the smoke and the odour of tobacco and cheap cigars.  Somebody was singing in a high, shrill, unlovely voice, and when Gladys looked towards the platform behind the footlights, she was horrified at the spectacle of a large, coarse-looking woman, wearing the scantiest possible amount of clothing, her face painted and powdered, her hair adorned with gilt spangles, her arms and neck hung with sham jewellery.

‘Who is she?  Is it not awful?’ whispered Gladys, which questions sent the undemonstrative Teen off into one of her silent fits of laughter.

But Liz looked a trifle annoyed.

’Don’t ask such silly questions.  That’s Mademoiselle Frivol, and she’s appearin’ in a new character.  It’s an awful funny song, evidently.  See how they’re laughin’.  Be quiet, an’ let’s listen.’