He said his name was Masters. He was an awful stick. Momma'd sent Louise out to give her the high sign. Louise's American Beauty man was in town, and there was going to be a party at the Cliff House. They could sneak in and dress and beat it out the back way. Momma had the guy in the living-room. He'd simply spoil the party.
"Aw, have a heart, Helen. Momma'll get rid of him somehow. You can fix it up afterward."
Helen's first thought was that Paul must not see her looking like this, disheveled, her hair untidy, and her fingers ink-stained. Her heart was beating fast, and there was a fluttering in her wrists. It was incredible that he was really near, separated from her only by a partition. The picture of him sitting there a victim of momma's efforts to entertain him was ghastly and at the same time hysterically comic. She tip-toed in breathless haste past the closed door and gained the safety of the bedroom, Louise's kimono rustling behind her. The first glance into the mirror was sickening. She tore off her hat and coat and let down her hair with trembling fingers.
"He's—an awful good friend. I must see him. Heavens! what a fright! Be an angel and find me a clean waist," she whispered. The comb shook in her hand; hairpins slipped through her fingers; the waist she found lacked a button, and every pin in the room had disappeared. It was an eternity before she was ready, and then, leaning for one last look in the glass, she was dissatisfied. There was no color in her face; even her lips were only palely pink. She bit them; she rubbed them with stinging perfume till they reddened; then with a hurried resolve she scrubbed her cheeks with Louise's rouge pad. That was better. Another touch of powder!
"Do I look all right?"
"Stunning! Aw, Helen, come through. Who is he? You've never told me a word." Louise was wild with curiosity.
"Sh-sh!" Helen cautioned. She drew a deep breath at the living-room door. Her little-girl shyness had come back upon her. Then she opened the door and walked in.
Momma, in her kimono, was sitting in the darkest corner of the room, with her back toward the window. Only a beaded slipper toe and some inches of silk stocking caught the light. She was obviously making conversation with painful effort. Paul sat facing her, erect in a stiff chair, his eyes fixed politely on a point over her shoulder. He rose with evident relief to meet Helen.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Masters," she said, embarrassed.
"Good afternoon." They shook hands.