“I will,” she promised.
Performance, not promise, was what her instructor demanded. “Do it now.”
With a sigh, the girl obeyed. “It makes me look sloppier than ever,” she lamented, glancing toward the mirror.
“Not actually,” was the counsel—of dubious comfort—from the other. “You only feel now as you’ve been looking all the time. Don’t get another pair until I tell you. I’ll pick ’em out if you still want them when Andy Dunne is through with you.”
“Who’s Andy Dunne?”
“Andy,” explained the actress concisely, “is the devil.”
“That’s encouraging,” murmured the girl. “Anyway, you’ll think he is. He’s my trainer.”
“Trainer! You talk as if you were a prizefighter.”
“I cut Andy’s lip with a straight left once,” said Miss Greene with a proud, reminiscent gleam in her eye. “It was one of the biggest moments of my life.”
Taking from her desk the note which she had described to Jacob Remsen as a commutation ticket to the last station, down-line, she handed it to Darcy. The girl read it.