“Well, Angel of Joy—have you fallen in love with yourself?” Jerry demanded.
Joy wet her lips, then remembered that they were painted, and was completely at a loss. “I—I certainly look—much better. But somehow I don’t like the idea.”
“Why not?” Sarah snapped, rubbing off a little of her bloom on one side. She did not appear to be especially pleased with Joy’s transformation.
“Well—somehow—you know, bad women and everything use paint and this stuff so much——”
“They put it on raw,” panted Jerry, who now in one short moment had slipped on her scanty evening dress and was jumping into her stockings. “Nine-tenths of the rest of us try to be artistic about it.”
“But you—you don’t use it, do you, Jerry?”
Again the gamin grin, as Jerry stamped on her slippers and raked her hair through with a comb. “No, it’s not my style. But I used to do—a lot of making-up.”
They made Joy walk downstairs ahead of them, as they “wanted to see her pulverize Jack.” And pulverize him she did. He was standing over by the mantel-piece as they came into the living-room, and his suddenly-fired eyes seemed to leap out and engulf her. She was not conscious of anyone else in the room, as she came forward shakily, a little smile quivering on her scarlet lips. His eyes were devouring her from the tip of her silver toe to the top of her golden hair. He took one step toward her——
And then Tom came dashing up to break the spell.
“For the lova fried tripe, what have you done to yourself, Joy?”