the other
side of your face." (Which made Gwendolyn wish that it was not impolite
to correct those older than herself; for it was plain that he meant
"you'll laugh on your _other_ face.")

Jane put out a tongue-tip at him insolently. Then dancing near, "Come!"
she bade Gwendolyn. "Come away with Nurse."

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces made no effort to interpose. But he wagged his
head significantly. "It's evident, Miss Jane," said he, "that you've
forgotten all about--the Piper."

She came short. And showed herself upset by what he had said, for she
did a hop-schottische.

He was not slow to take advantage. "We're sure to see him shortly," he
went on. "And when we do--! Because your account with him is adding up
_terrifically_. You're dancing a good deal, you know."

"How can I help _that?_" demanded Jane. "Ain't I dancin' atten--"

Gwendolyn forgot to listen to the remainder of the sentence. All at once
she was a little apprehensive on her own account--remembering how _she_
had danced beside the soda-water, not half an hour before!

"Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Faces," she began timidly, "do you mean the Piper
that everybody has to pay?"

"Exactly," replied the little old gentleman. "He's out collecting some
pay for me now--from a dishonest fellow who didn't settle for two dozen
ears that I boxed and sent him."

At that, Jane began tittering harder than ever (hysterically, this
time), holding up her arm as before--and filling out two or three
wrinkles in the black sateen! And Gwendolyn, watching closely, saw that
while the front face of her nurse was all a-grin, the face on the back
of her head wore a nervous expression. (Evidently that front face was
not always to be depended upon!)

The little old gentleman also remarked the nervous expression. And
followed up the advantage already won. "Now," said he, "perhaps you'll
be willing to come along quietly. We're just starting, you understand."
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Gwendolyn glanced in the direction he pointed. And saw--for the first
time--that a wide, smooth road led away from the Face-Shop, a road as
wide and smooth and curving as the Drive. Like the Drive it was
well-lighted on either side (but lighted low-down) by a row of tiny
electric bulbs with frosted shades, each resembling an incandescent
toadstool. (She remembered having once caught a glimpse of something
similar in a store-window.) These tiny lamps were set close together on
short stems, precisel