Miss Lulu Tracy lived in a lower West Side rooming-house. Lily had once dwelt in that same dingy-fronted building, in a room which, like her friend's, was reduced to its lowest terms. The familiar cryptic atmosphere met her as she crossed the threshold. Loo greeted her effusively.
"Lordy, Lil, I was afraid you was gettin' cold feet! Sit right down there on the trunk till I get some of this cold-cream off. I'm ready to drop in my tracks, I am. Three of the lace-girls fainted to-day and had to be took home. Ain't this room awful?"
Lilly sank in a little heap on the trunk.
"It is hot," she admitted.
"Hot? You look like a cucumber. Wait'll I get this cold-cream off, and tell me all about it. I'm here to tell you that you're all right, you are. Give me a game one every time! But wait till I tell you what's up."
Miss Tracy laved her face with layers of cold-cream, which she presently removed with a towel.
"Don't I wish I had your skin, Lil!"
Lilly brightened.
"Quit your kiddin', Loo," she said. "I ain't used to jollying no more."
"You know yourself you was the best looker we ever had at the counter. Skinny calls you The Lily to this day."