"I wanted to tell you that I read that last story of yours," said
Millie, sociably, when I had strolled over to her counter, "and I
liked it, all but the heroine. She had an `adorable throat' and
hair that `waved away from her white brow,' and eyes that `now
were blue and now gray.' Say, why don't you write a story about
an ugly girl?"
"My land!" protested I. "It's bad enough trying to make them
accept my stories as it is. That last heroine was a raving
beauty, but she came back eleven times before the editor of
Blakely's succumbed to her charms."
Millie's fingers were busy straightening the contents of a tray
of combs and imitation jet barrettes. Millie's fingers were not
intended for that task. They are slender, tapering fingers,
pink-tipped and sensitive.
"I should think," mused she, rubbing a cloudy piece of jet with a
bit of soft cloth, "that they'd welcome a homely one with relief.
These goddesses are so cloying."
Millie Whitcomb's black hair is touched with soft mists of gray,
and she wears lavender shirtwaists and white stocks edged with
lavender. There is a Colonial air about her that has nothing to
do with celluloid combs and imitation jet barrettes.
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