Deane did not reply. It was unlikely that she heard him, for the same antagonistic attitude surrounded her; and, too, she was absorbed by her painstaking job. The blue line of underbeard around the jaw and chin had to be blocked out; for this, she used a flesh-colored paste, rubbing it in gently. The rice powder was rachel in shade, made almost the color of Martin’s skin by the addition of a pinch of ocher. This was carefully smoothed away. She used no rouge. And so she continued, blending and examining, until she stepped aside to view her finished handiwork and exclaimed rather sharply, “Sit up!”
Which Martin did, looking at her with a kind of agitated wonder. But Deane, seeing only his face—with his gray eyes now turned to green, and his somewhat melancholy expression softened by women’s devices, ran to him, fell on her knees and began to weep deeply. At this, Martin lifted her to him, holding her, trying to kiss her cheeks. But she slipped away and dried her tears and blew her nose, saying, “It would spoil your looks and I’ve worked too hard for that.”
He started to put his hand to his head but Deane cried out, “Oh, no!” For his hair, parted in the middle, had been combed back of the ears to a point at the base of his neck, where a braid, similar in shade and texture, had been cleverly attached, wrapped and pinned. His hair was now the same wheat-like color as his skin; and the cold, precise line from his head to his shoulders had the essence of that deliberate, calculated passion which so often appeals to the sensitized, yet physical individual. When at last he stood up and lit a cigarette, leaning with a conscious gracefulness upon the piano, Deane went to him and looked up at him uncertainly. Seeing him stand there in such elegance and strength, she bitterly regretted the perversity which had driven her to push him toward this mad adventure. And though her pride rebelled at calling it off at this late moment, she said rather timidly, “Of course, Martin, you don’t have to go if you really dislike it so much.”
“What?” he almost shouted, looking at her incredulously. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
“Oh, hush!” said Deane nervously. “Of course you’re going! I was just teasing.” But she looked at this man in woman’s clothing and she realized she had never been so attracted. She watched the long muscles flex in his arm as he moved his cigarette. A furious desire struck her.
“You must hurry,” she whispered, gritting her teeth. “You will be late.” Again Martin looked at her steadily, the green glaze covering his eyes.
“I’ll return immediately after the party,” he said, picking up the wrap she had chosen for him. “Read this—” and he pressed a letter into her hands and left, unsmiling.
When he had gone, Deane opened the letter with feverish haste and read it swiftly. Still standing, she threw it across the room, removed her hairpins and mussed her hair until it was wild. With a sob she flung herself face down on the divan and worked her body on the pillows until she screamed. Then she wept until she fell asleep.
Carol arrived at the drag wearing a leopard cape with a high, stiff collar. There was a single stone in his triple-peaked tiara, filigree work coiling around the gem. Patsy helped him off with his wrap, glanced slyly at his rather buxom figure, and announced him in the drawing room in a falsetto voice.
“Miss Stevens,” cried Patsy, in her unusual pitch.