Down the stairs flew Tavia. Lightly she touched the mahogany paneled door at Mrs. White's boudoir.
"Come," answered the pleasant voice.
"I came to thank you," faltered Tavia, glancing with misgivings at the handsome bared arms and throat before the gilt framed mirror.
"For your heart?" and Mrs. White smiled so kindly.
"Yes," said Tavia simply, and the next moment she had both arms around that beautiful neck.
The woman held the girl to her breast for a moment. Tavia's heart was beating wildly.
"My dear," said Mrs. White, "I do hope you have enjoyed yourself," and she kissed her again. "But you must promise me not to paint with mullen leaves any more. Sometimes such jokes lead to habits—one looks pale you know when the blaze dies away."
Tavia felt as if her blaze never would die away. Why had she been so foolish? She would have given anything now to rub those horrid, prickly leaves off forever.
"I never will paint—" she stammered.
"I hope you will not, dear, you should be grateful for such coloring as you have. But let me warn you in all kindness. It is usually pretty girls who make such mistakes—they want to be more and more attractive and so spoil it all. Think right, and of pleasant things, and the glory of happiness will be all the cosmetic you will ever need," and again she pressed her own white cheek to the burning face of the girl she still held in her arms.