She was too keen an observer not to suspect who her fellow creative artist was. Being of the ultra-blessed who hold their tongues until it is time to speak, Gloria made no comment upon this phase, but set her mind singly to the problem in hand as presented by Darcy’s recital. “It’s time to own up,” was her decision.
“I suppose so,” agreed the girl. “I don’t look forward to telling Maud.”
“Let me handle Maud.”
“Would you, Gloria? You are good. However well you do it, though,” she added resentfully, “I suppose I’ll be ‘Poor Darcy’ again without even the compensation of being ‘Such a nice girl.’”
“Do you feel like ‘Poor Darcy’?”
“No.”
“Do you look like ‘Poor Darcy’?”
The girl glanced at the long studio mirror back of her. “No, I don’t,” she replied, and two dimples came forward and offered corroborative testimony.
“Then whom is the joke on?”
The dimples vanished. “On me,” said their erstwhile proprietor.