Constance looked at Stella now with added interest as she rose languidly, drew her bathrobe about her superb figure carelessly in such a way as to show it at best advantage.
"I've had more or less to do with Wall Street myself," observed Constance.
"Oh, have you?
Isn't that interesting," cried Stella.
"I hope you're not putting money in Rubber ?" queried Constance.
"On the contrary," rippled Stella, then added, "You're going to stay?
Let me tell you something.

Have Floretta do your hair.

She's the best here.

Then come around to see me in the dormitory if I'm here when you are through, won't you ?" Constance promised and Stella fluttered away like the pretty butterfly that she was, leaving Constance to wonder at the natural gravitation of plungers in the money market toward plungers in the white lights.
Charmant's Beauty Parlor was indeed all its name implied, a temple of the cult of adornment, the last cry in the effort to satisfy what is more than health, wealth, and happiness to some women--the fundamental feminine instinct for beauty.
Constance had visited the beauty specialist to have an incipient wrinkle smoothed out.

Frankly, it was not vanity.