“Miss Brewster!” I stopped typing.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Come here,” she called, and her voice sounded impatient.
I stepped across the hall into her room. She was standing in front of the mirror putting on a ruffled taffeta dress, which she was struggling to adjust.
“Hook me up!” she commanded, without the formality of saying “Please.”
I had it on the end of my tongue to tell her that I was a stenographer, not a lady’s maid, but I remembered “Give Service” in time, and hooked her up without a word. She never even said “Thank you!” She just sat down at her dressing table and began pencilling her eyebrows. Evidently it must have been the maid’s day out, for she called me in again later to pin her collar.
“Have I got too much color on my face?” she asked languidly, dabbing away at her cheeks with some red stuff out of a box in front of her. Then she put carmine on her lips, a sort of whitewash on her nose and forehead and finished it with some pencilled shadows under her eyes. All I could think of was Eeny-Meeny, the time we gave her that coat of war paint.
“What’s that?” asked milady while I was fastening her collar, poking her finger at my Torch Bearer’s pin.
“It’s a Camp Fire pin,” I replied.
“What’s Camp Fire?” she demanded idly.