Not once had his glance paused in the vicinity of Dolores Trent. She, in complete reversal of last night’s concept of a Fate especially interested in herself, lingered only to watch proceedings.
The softer lines which had made Mrs. Hutton’s face attractive disappeared with her employer. Sentiment evidently was to have no place in these “processes of detection best known to her sex.” She formed the seventy-odd applicants in lines, before which she walked, looking each closely in the face.
“Girls wearing rouge to this side of the room.”
No one moved. With women’s headiest hope, each evidently relied upon the artistry of her make-up.
Mary Hutton again started along the lines. Authoritatively she tapped this rose-blush blond and that brilliant brunette.
To one who protested that she would not know how to rouge: “You don’t need to tell me, my dear, anything self-evident. You shouldn’t put so much in the center of your cheeks. Natural color spreads. That’s the first lesson I give our sales-girls. Start with a dab on the chin, next a suggestion on your forehead between the eyes, then quite a bit on the lobes of the ears, where all color starts. Only with these high spots tinted to guide you can you hope for a natural effect. When you’re going out, ask for my booklet, ‘If You Must Rouge, Rouge Right.’ They’ll give you a copy free. Now, please, girls over twenty, fall out!”
Again hesitation, reproaches and complaints were met with uncompromising firmness.
Dolores never understood how it happened, for long since she had given up. She made no plea to Mrs. Hutton, nor did Mrs. Hutton say anything in particular to her. In fact, if the forewoman showed any notice of her other than of an automaton, it looked to be dislike, not approval. Yet, at the last, after the most impersonal of appraisals, she found herself among the fittest five. As one, they were waved between the curtains of gray and lavender chintz.
The “studio” might have been milady’s boudoir. Of violet velvet were the carpets and hangings. The spindly Hepplewhite furniture wore modulated tapestry. There was bric-a-brac scattered about. On the walls hung etchings.
Vincent Seff had removed his homespun coat for a smoking jacket of embroidered lavender silk, with which the more delicate tone of his shirt and tie blended satisfyingly. He did not rise as they entered; indeed, did not glance up for several minutes afterward. He was lolling upon a chaise lounge, at work over a drawing—some garment design, presumedly, as he kept glancing at a rack beside him over which hung several strips of sheer, vari-tinted fabrics.