“You interrupt too much,” broke in the mentor severely. “You laze too much. You shirk and postpone too much. You nibble too much candy. When you feel below par you take a pill instead of a walk. Don’t you?”
The girl stared. “How do you know all these things about me?”
“Read ’em in your face, of course. And a lot more, besides.”
“Nobody else ever read ’em there. Not even the doctor.”
“Probably he has, but is too polite to tell you all he sees, or too cynical to believe that you’d take the trouble to do anything about it if he told you. Or perhaps he just doesn’t see it.”
“Then how do you?”
“I’m an expert, my dear young innocent. It’s part of my profession to be good-looking just as it is to keep well-read and well-dressed. And a lot harder!”
“How can it be harder for you? You’re beautiful just naturally.”
“I’m not beautiful. Your Holcomb Lee or any other artist with a real eye could reduce my face to a mere scrap-heap of ill-assorted features. I’m reasonably pleasant to look at because I work hard at the business of being just that. And I’m going to keep on being pleasant to look at for twenty good years yet if care and clothes will do it!”
“Clothes help such a lot,” sighed the girl. “When are you going to help me with mine?”