“Florabelle” took a small silk handkerchief from his pocket and gently dusted the bench upon which he suggested that “Madame” rest her slender form. With much bowing and curtsying, Floyd was now ready to proceed with his masterful art of transforming this man into a charming hostess.
The beautician was slight, with tiny features. Although he was well on in years, he looked no more than fifty. “A half century plant,” he had once called himself. He wore his hair long and dyed it periodically, according to the fashion. On his feet were patent leather pumps of shining black, with medium heels. With his frock coat of gray he wore dark trousers. While engaged in his profession, he affected a long white smock with a lavender lace handkerchief in the pocket over his heart. His cheeks, having been recently paraffined, were now symmetrical and would remain that way for weeks to come, when their contour would again have to be remodeled.
He fingered Drew’s hair, combing it straight back from the head. The short locks fell gracefully between his fingers as they discussed the different styles—dismissing this, then that one until the matter was decided. Then quickly Floyd began his craft.
“Madame,” he said, “as a privileged acquaintance of long standing, do I know any of your guests of this evening?”
“Yes, Florabelle,” said Drew, in a soft and gracious tone. “You recall Beulah. She has been suffering lately with acute indigestion and general complications. But she’s coming.”
“My dear Madame!” The artist raised his eyes to the ceiling. “That one! She should have retired from society years ago! She is very well fixed financially, you know, but oh!—she is so tight! I’ll wager she’s home now dressing her own hair! Imagine! The ends will all be burned, and there’ll probably be some burns on her neck. It simply makes me shiver! And she’ll wait until she gets here to-night to use your powder! It’s not that I care—but I could transform her into a beautiful person. Her taste is vile—simply vile! And dearie, with that face!—I’d have to work for hours and hours! As I’ve said before, I don’t care what she does, but she could be made ravishing!”
Florabelle’s dainty white fingers had been busy at work—shampooing and rinsing—and were now in the act of combing the hair and turning the soft ends under.
“What gown has Madame selected to enhance her singular beauty, if I may ask?” questioned the little hairdresser.
“White velvet, ’Belle. I feel nostalgic this evening,” answered Drew.
“Ah!” cried Florabelle in delight. “Then indeed I have a gorgeous surprise for you! I have an amazing lotion, greaseless, odorless, which tints the hair an incredibly lovely white. I used it on Monsieur—” he bent down and whispered a name into Drew’s ear. “She insisted upon it. Madame was very gay that evening. It was the first time I had tried the preparation on any of my exclusive clientele. Madame was wearing a short velvet jacquette of green over her white velvet gown; and she wore green rouge on her cheeks and lips in the current Parisian fashion. Dearie,” the hairdresser put one finger to his lips and took a step backward, “would you like to be the first to use these tints in America?”