“It doesn’t. It’s dead. It’s dumb. Don’t talk. You distract my mind.”
For several minutes she walked around the girl, debating her from every angle with pitiless impersonality, and with the analytical eye of the adept in a school wherein attractiveness is often a personal and technical achievement. At the conclusion of this ordeal Darcy found herself perched upon a high-backed seat while the actress expertly daubed her face with make-up from a box kept for purposes of experimentation. Next the subject’s hair was arranged, and her figure draped in the flowing lines of some shimmering fabric, chosen, after much profound consideration on Gloria’s part, from a carved chest. She was then told to straighten her spine, and smile. Near her lay Gloria’s hand mirror. Before the proprietor could interfere the girl picked it up and sat staring into it.
“Well, and what do you think of yourself?” queried her mentor grimly.
“I—I look like a bad joke,” whimpered Darcy.
“You do. But if you cry I’ll set you out on the fire-escape just as you are, for the neighbors to throw things at.”
“I’m n-n-n-not c-c-crying.”
“And don’t grab, next time. Well-conditioned lay figures never do. Sit up! You’re all caved in again.”
With strong hands she prodded, bent, and moulded the girl’s yielding figure to the desired posture. Finally she wheeled into position, several yards away, a full-length glass, and turned on an overhead light.
“Now. Look in here.”
Looking, Darcy gave a little gasp of wonder and delight. Under the modulated radiance and with the toning down of distance, the harsh, turgid spots and lines of the make-up had blended into a harmonious ensemble. The face was that of Holcomb Lee’s picture—almost.