“Wear it on your face at night,” Billie retorted imperturbably.
“Not all at once!” cried Edina horrified.
Billie glanced at her to make sure she meant it, then went off into gales of giggles that made passing shoppers gaze at her curiously.
“A little at a time, you silly! Edina, you’ll be the death of me yet!”
“Well, I don’t like the idea of it, nohow—anyhow,” the girl persisted doggedly. “I ain’t never—ever—had anything but good spring water on my face up to now and I’m not yearning to go greasing myself up like an Indian at this late date.”
“You’ll get used to it,” prophesied Billie cheerfully. “You can get used to anything. Besides, now that you have all those beautiful dresses, you must grow a complexion to match.”
“How you talk! A complexion ain’t—isn’t—like shoes and stockings—that it’s got to match up with your clothes.”
“It’s even more important,” said Billie firmly. “Don’t argue. Come along!”
Laden with boxes and bundles, they found their way to a movie picture palace in the vicinity.
The scenario of the picture happened to be laid in the West—one of those blood-and-thunder films replete with villains, dashing ponies, lariats, and heroic cowboys. During the entire entertainment, Edina kept up a running fire of comment and criticism that provided Billie with more entertainment than the film, much to the annoyance of a dignified and portly old gentleman who had the seat in front of them.