“Oh, we’d all look like ghosts if we didn’t,” said the girl. “Those footlights make you ghastly if your face isn’t painted.”
“It makes some people look like frights, anyway,” called another voice, shrilly. “It is just too funny to see some folks prink when they can’t be anything but scrawny and ugly, no matter how much they paint and whitewash!”
The girl in the doorway glanced over her shoulder scornfully.
“You wear ‘symmetricals’ yourself, Miss Impudence,” she said, tauntingly. “I may be scrawny around the shoulders, but my legs are all right, and legs are all that is wanted in the chorus nowadays.”
“I thought it was voices that were desired,” said Marion, dryly; “but, then, I am new; I don’t know much about requirements.”
“I notice you are mighty careful not to wear your dress short at either end,” called another voice. “What is the matter with your shape, Signorita Ila?”
Marion Marlowe flushed a little, but did not reply, so the girl in the doorway promptly answered for her.
“Oh, she’s too modest and shy, don’t you understand! But just wait a week, girls—then you may have to look to your laurels. Can’t make me believe that the little ‘greeny’ isn’t all right! She’s fresh from the country, and ought to be as plump as a partridge.”
“You are the only girl in the chorus that ain’t jealous, Jennie,” called a coarse masculine voice, as Jack Green, the “property man,” came by at that minute.
Jennie was just stepping into her slippers when she caught sight of Jack. In an instant one of them went spinning in his direction.