“If it don’t take a lot of dressing,” Julia said thoughtfully, as she and Miss Girard powdered their noses at the dark mirror of the sideboard.

“Don’t you be fool enough to do it for a cent under fifty,” Emeline said.

Julia smiled at her vaguely, and added to her farewells a daughterly, “Your hat’s all right, Mama, but your veil’s sort of caught up over your ear.  Fix it before you go out.  We’ll be back here at five—­”

“Or we’ll meet you at Monte’s,’” said Connie.

The two girls walked briskly down Eddy Street, conscious of their own charms, and conscious of the world about them.  Connie was nearly nineteen, a simple, happy little flirt, who had been in and out of love constantly for three or four years.  Julia knew her very well, and admired her heartily.  Connie had twice had a speaking part in the past year, and the younger girl felt her to be well on her way toward fame.  Miss Girard’s family of plain, respectable folk lived in Stockton, and were somewhat distressed by her choice of a vocation, but Connie was really a rather well-behaved girl,—­and a safe adviser for Julia.

“Say, listen, Con,” said Julia, presently, “you know Mark Rosenthal?”

“Sure,” said Connie.  “Look here, Ju!” She paused at a window.  “Don’t you think these Chinese hand bags are swell!”

“Grand.  But listen, Con,” said Julia, shamefacedly honest as a boy.  “He’s got a case on me—–­”

“On you?” echoed Connie.  “Why, he’s twenty!”

“I know it,” Julia agreed.

“But, my Lord, Ju, your Mother won’t stand for that!”

“Mama don’t know it.”

“Well, I don’t think you ought to do that, Ju,” Connie began gravely.  But Julia, with sudden angry tears in her eyes, stopped her.

“I’ve not done anything!” she said crossly.  And suddenly Connie saw the truth:  that Julia, in spite of paint and powder, rings and “clubbed” hair, was only a little girl, after all, still unsexed, still young enough to resent being teased about boys.

“What’s he do?” she asked presently.

“Well, he—­he—­I have supper with them sometimes”—­Julia’s words poured out eagerly—­“and he’ll kiss me, you know—­”

“Kiss you!  The nerve!”

“Oh, before them all, I mean—­like he always has done.  His mother just laughs.  And then, last week, when he asked me to go to Morosco’s with them, why, it was just us two—­the others had gone somewhere else.”

“Well, of all gall!” said Connie, absorbed.

“And I’ve been up there with him thousands of times,” said Julia.  “Maybe Hannah’d be there, or Sophy, but sometimes we’d be alone—­ while he was playing the piano, you know.”

“Well, now you look-a-here, Julie,” said Connie impressively, “you cut out that being alone business, and the kissing, too.  And now how about to-night?  Are you sure his whole family is going to-night?”

“Well, that’s just it, I’m not,” Julia confessed, flattered by Connie’s interest.