There was some
one else in the room. Some one in a marvelous dress, with a
white-washed throat, with lips too red, and cheeks too pink, and brows
too black, some one with an unbelievable quantity of curls on top of
her, and--I turned around to see whom it might be. Nobody there. I
looked back to the mirror. I was not dreaming,--of course there was
some one in the room. No, the room was empty save we three. I turned
suspiciously to Mrs. Hedges. She was still in her place, a smiling
study in wistaria and silver gray. I looked at Andy, immaculate in
black and white. Then--sickening realization.
"I stood up abruptly. The atrocity in the mirror rose also.
"'That isn't I,' I cried imploringly.
"Mrs. Hedges looked startled, but Andy came to my side at once.
"'No, it certainly isn't,' he said heartily. 'What on earth have you
been doing to yourself, Connie?'
"I went close to the mirror, inspecting myself, grimly, piteously. I
do not understand it to this day. The girls do the same things to
themselves and they look wonderful,--never like that.
"I rubbed my lips with my fingers, and understood the moisture. I
examined my brows, and knew what the scratching meant. I shook the
pile of hair, and a shower of invisible hair pins rewarded me.
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