But she had come to realize that her greatest asset was her personal appearance.

Once that had a chance to work, her native wit and keen ability would carry her to success.
Madame Charmant herself was a tall, dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed, well-groomed woman who looked as if she had been stamped from a die for a fashion plate--and then the die had been thrown away.
All others like her were spurious copies, counterfeits.

More than that, she affected the name of Vera, which in itself had the ring of truth.
And so Charmant had prevailed on Constance to take a full course in beautification and withhold the wrinkle at the source.
"Besides, you know, my dear," she purred, "there's nothing discovered by the greatest minds of the age that we don't apply at once." Constance was not impervious to feminine reason, and here she was.
"Has Miss Larue gone ?" she asked when at last she was seated in a comfortable chair again sipping a little aromatic cup of coffee.
"No, she's resting in one of the little dressing rooms." She followed Floretta down the corridor.

Each little compartment had its neat, plain white enameled bed, a dresser and a chair.
Stella smiled as Constance entered.

"Yes," she murmured in response to the greeting, "I feel quite myself now." "Mr.Warrington on the wire," announced Floretta a moment later, coming down the corridor again with a telephone on a long unwinding wire.
"Hello, Alfred--oh, rocky this morning," Constance overheard.