"Say, listen, Con," said Julia, presently, "you know Mark Rosenthal?"
"Sure," said Connie. "Look here, Ju!" She paused at a window. "Don't you think these Chinese hand bags are swell!"
"Grand. But listen, Con," said Julia, shamefacedly honest as a boy. "He's got a case on me——"
"On you?" echoed Connie. "Why, he's twenty!"
"I know it," Julia agreed.
"But, my Lord, Ju, your Mother won't stand for that!"
"Mama don't know it."
"Well, I don't think you ought to do that, Ju," Connie began gravely. But Julia, with sudden angry tears in her eyes, stopped her.
"I've not done anything!" she said crossly. And suddenly Connie saw the truth: that Julia, in spite of paint and powder, rings and "clubbed" hair, was only a little girl, after all, still unsexed, still young enough to resent being teased about boys.
"What's he do?" she asked presently.