“I surmised that you were in some trouble,” murmured Miss Ley, “for I think you’ve rather overdone the—slap. Isn’t that the technical expression?”
Mrs. Castillyon put both hands to her cheeks.
“It burns me. Let me go and wash it off. I had to put it on this morning, I looked such an absolute wreck. May I go and bathe my face? It’ll cool me.”
“By all means,” answered Miss Ley, smiling, “and while Mrs. Castillyon was absent asked herself what could be the cause of this sudden excursion.
Presently Grace returned and looked in the glass. Her skin, bare of rouge and powder, was yellow and lined, and the cosmetic on her eyebrows and lashes, which water did remove, threw into more violent contrast the ghastly pallor. Instinctively she took a puff from her pocket, and quickly powdered her face; then she turned to Miss Ley.
“Did you never make up?” she asked.
“Never. I was always afraid of making myself absurd.”
“Oh, one gets over that—but I know it’s silly; I’m going to give it up.”
“You say that as tragically as though you announced your intention of going into a nunnery.”
Mrs. Castillyon glanced at the door suspiciously.