“Lots of things. What’s wrong now? Another fit of the sulks?”
“Worse,” said the old lady in a stage whisper. “She’s got paint on her face.”
Dr. Strong laughed. “Really? It might be worse. In fact, as a symptom, it couldn’t be better.”
“Young man, do you mean to tell me that face-paint is a good thing for a young woman?”
“Oh, no. It’s vulgar and tawdry, as a practice. But I’m glad to know that Miss Ennis has turned to it, because it shows that she recognizes her own improvement and is trying to add to it.”
“But the stuff will ruin her skin,” cried the scandalized old lady. “See what dreadful faces women have who use it. Look at the actresses—”
“Well, look at them!” broke in the physician. “There is no class of women in the world with such beautiful skin as the women of the stage. And that in spite of hard work, doubtful habits of eating, and irregular hours. Do you know why?”
“I suppose you’ll tell me that paint does it,” said Mrs. Sharpless with a sniff.
“Not the paint itself. But the fact that in putting it on and taking it off, they maintain a profound cleanliness of skin which the average woman doesn’t even understand. The real value of the successful skin-lotions and creams so widely exploited lies in the massage which their use compels.”
“Aside from the stuff on her face,” remarked Mrs. Sharpless, “Louise looks like another woman, and acts like one. She came breezing in here like a young cyclone.”