“This is a cruel world.  I suppose it would fuss her all up if I dropped him out of a window,” Johnny observed wistfully.

“Constance doesn’t need help.  Just watch her!” And Polly grinned appreciatively as Constance, recognizing and sorting the tottering lady-killer at a glance, took his money handed him a nosegay and a pin, and returned to the back of the booth to arrange her stock: 

A huge blot of orange and a thin streak of lavender paused on the other side of the palms.  Johnny wondered to see these two enemies together, but no man could know the satisfaction they took in it.

“The violet booth,” read the big blot of orange, adjusting her gold lorgnette to the bridge of her globular nose and consulting her catalogue.  “Friday afternoon:  Polly Parsons and Mrs. Arthur Follison.  That is not Mrs. Follison in the booth, is it?”

“Oh, no, Mrs. Guff!” protested the thin streak of lavender in a rasping little lavender voice.  “Mrs. Follison, though not a doll-face—­indeed, far from it—­is of most aristocratic bearing.”

“I suppose that person in the booth, then, is the adopted actress,” guessed Mrs. Guff.  “Any one can tell that’s beauty and movement of the professional type.”

Johnny looked at Polly with hasty concern, but that young lady was enjoying the joke on Constance and gripped his arm for silence.

“One can quite understand how poor Billy Parsons might become infatuated with her doll-face,” returned Miss Purry pityingly, since she was herself entirely free from the crime of doll-facedness; “but that the Parsons should adopt such a common person merely because Billy died before he could marry her was inconsiderate of the rest of our class.”

“The artfulness of her!” exclaimed the thick one, lorgnetting the graceful Constance with a fishy eye as the temporary flower girl joyously greeted Ashley Loring and Val Russel and Bruce Townley, pinned bouquets upon them and exchanged laughing banter with them.

“Dreadful!” agreed the shocked thin one.  “Those are the very wiles by which doll-faced stage women insnare our most desirable young men.”

Constance looked about just then in search of Polly, and her eyes lighted as they saw Johnny standing with her.

“Oh, Polly!” she called.

“Coming, Constance!” returned the hearty and cheery voice of Polly from just behind the critics.

The ladies in lavender and orange were still gasping when Johnny Gamble passed them with Polly.  He had made up his mind about the river-front property.

Loud acclaim hailed Polly and Johnny, for where they went there was zest of life; and the boys, knowing well that Johnny never wore flowers, made instant way for him at the violet booth.

“I’ll take some blue ones, lady,” announced Johnny gamely, intending to wear them with defiance.

“I’ll give you the nearest we have, mister,” laughed Constance, and promptly decorated him.