urs, and she had your colouring, your eyes, your chin. She carried
herself with the critical indifference one might expect in an artist who
had come for a look at a new production that was clearly doomed to
failure. She applauded lightly. She made comments to Stein when comments
were natural enough. I thought, as I studied her face with the glass,
that her nose was a trifle thinner than yours, a prettier nose, my dear
Kitty, but stupider and more inflexible. All the same, I was troubled
until I saw her laugh,--and then I knew she was a counterfeit. I had
never seen you laugh, but I knew that you would not laugh like that. It
was not boisterous; indeed, it was consciously refined,--mirthless,
meaningless. In short, it was not the laugh of one whom our friends in
there"--pointing to the Simon painting--"would honour with their
affection and admiration."

Kitty rose on her elbow and burst out indignantly:

"So you would really have been hood-winked except for that! You may be
sure that no woman, no intelligent woman, would have been. Why do we ever
take the trouble to look like anything for any of you? I could count on
my four fingers"--she held them up and shook them at him--"the men I've
known who had the least perception of what any woman really looked like,
and they were all dressmakers. Even painters"--glancing back in the
direction of the Simon picture--"never get more than one type through
their thick heads; they try to make all women look like some wife or
mistress. You are all the same; you never see our real faces. What you do
see, is some cheap conception of prettiness you got from a coloured
supplement when you were adolescents. It's too discouraging. I'd rather
take vows and veil my face for ever from such abominable eyes. In the
kingdom of the blind any petticoat is a queen." Kitty thumped the cushion
with her elbow. "Well, I can't do anything about it. Go on with your
story."

"Aren't you furious, Kitty! And I thought I was so shrewd. I've quite
forgotten where I was. Anyhow, I was not the only man fooled. After the
last curtain I met Villard, the press man of that management, in the
lobby, and asked him whether Kitty Ayrshire was in the house. He said he
thought so. Stein had telephoned for a box, and said he was bringing one
of the artists from the other company. Villard had been too busy about
the new production to go to the box, but he was quite sure the woman was
Ayrshire, whom he had met in Paris.