e have lovely times. The girls are--not like me. They are really
society buds, and wear startling evening gowns and go places in taxis,
and are quite the height of fashion. It is a wonder they put up with
me at all. Still every establishment must have at least one
Cinderella. But let me admit honestly and Methodistically that I do
less Cinderelling than either of them. Gladys darns my stockings, and
Phyllis makes my bed fully half the time.

"Anyhow, when Andrew Hedges, millionaire's son, telephoned that his
mother was coming up, they fell upon me, and one rubbed and one fanned,
and they both talked at once, and in the end I agreed to leave myself
in their hands. They knew all about millionaires' sons' mothers, it
seemed, and would fix me up just exactly O. K. right. Gladys and I are
the same size, and she has an exquisite semi-evening gown of Nile green
and honest-to-goodness lace which I have long admired humbly from my
corner among the ashes. Just the thing. I should wear it, and make
the millionaire's son's mother look like twenty cents.

"Wickedly and wilfully I agreed. So when the hair was dry enough to
manage, they marched me into Gladys' room--the only one of the three
capable of accommodating three of us--and turned the mirrors to the
wall. I protested at that. I wanted to see my progress under their
skilful fingers.

"'No,' said Phyllis sagely. 'It looks horrible while it is going on.
You must wait until you are finished, and then burst upon your own
enraptured vision. You will enchant yourself.'

"Gladys seconded her and I assented weakly. I know I am not naturally
weak, Carol, but the thought of a millionaire's son's mother affected
me very strangely. It took all the starch out of my knees, and the
spine out of my backbone.

"By this time I was established in Gladys' green slippers with
rhinestone buckles, and Gladys was putting all of her own and Phyllis'
rings on my fingers, and Phyllis was using a crimping iron on my curls.
I was too curly already, but Phyllis said natural curliness was not the
thing any more. Then Gladys began dabbing funny sticky stuff all over
my fingers, and scratching my eyebrows, and powdering about twenty
layers on my face and throat. After that, she rubbed my finger nails
until I could almost see what they were doing to me. I never thought I
had much hair, but when Phyllis got through with me I could hardly
carry it. The ladies in Hawaii who carry bushel