Glory did so. The others were similarly disrobed, and in a few moments their three ladyships were busy before the toilet tables with their grease and rose-pink and black pencils.
Glory was taking down the hair of her stout ladyship, and her stout ladyship was looking at Glory in the glass.
“Not a bad face, girls, eh?”
The other two glanced at Glory approvingly. “Not bad,” they answered, and then hummed or whistled as they went on with their making-up.
“Oh, thank you,” said Glory, with a low courtesy, and everybody laughed. It was really very amusing. Suddenly it ceased to be so.
“And what's it's nyme, my dear?” said the little lady.
A sort of shame at using in this company the name that was sacred to home, to the old parson, and to John Storm, came creeping over Glory like a goosing of the flesh, and by the inspiration of a sudden memory she answered, “Gloria.”
The little lady paused with the black pencil at her eyebrows, and said:
“My! What a nyme for the top line of a bill!”
“Ugh! Mykes me feel like Sundays, though,” said the tall lady with a shudder.