She was a home-maker, not a butterfly.

Was Warrington worth it all?
asked Constance of herself.

"At least she thinks so," flashed over her, as Mrs.Warrington rose, and left the room, watchfully guided by Floretta to the next process in her course in beautification.
Constance sank back luxuriously on the cushions of her chaise longue.
She longed to explore the beauty parlor, to leave the rest room and go down the narrow corridor, prying into the secrets of the little dressing rooms that opened into it.

What did they conceal?
Why had Vera seemed so distant?
Was it the natural reaction of the "morning after," or was Stella really there and was she keeping her away from Mrs.
Warrington to prevent friction between two clients that would have been annoying to all?
She could reach no conclusion, except that there was a feeling of luxurious well-being as she lolled back into the deep recesses of the lounge in the corner of the room separated from the next room by a thin board partition.
Suddenly her attention was arrested by muffled voices on the other side of the partition.

She strained her ears.