It is a wonder they put up with
me at all. Still every establishment must have at least one
Cinderella. But let me admit honestly and Methodistically that I do
less Cinderelling than either of them. Gladys darns my stockings, and
Phyllis makes my bed fully half the time.
"Anyhow, when Andrew Hedges, millionaire's son, telephoned that his
mother was coming up, they fell upon me, and one rubbed and one fanned,
and they both talked at once, and in the end I agreed to leave myself
in their hands. They knew all about millionaires' sons' mothers, it
seemed, and would fix me up just exactly O. K. right. Gladys and I are
the same size, and she has an exquisite semi-evening gown of Nile green
and honest-to-goodness lace which I have long admired humbly from my
corner among the ashes. Just the thing. I should wear it, and make
the millionaire's son's mother look like twenty cents.
"Wickedly and wilfully I agreed. So when the hair was dry enough to
manage, they marched me into Gladys' room--the only one of the three
capable of accommodating three of us--and turned the mirrors to the
wall. I protested at that. I wanted to see my progress under their
skilful fingers.
"'No,' said Phyllis sagely. 'It looks horrible while it is going on.
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