"Crying is so terribly damaging to my particular style of beauty!
Every time I do it I vow I never will again--"
"And then the boys do foolish things like going away to be shot," finished
Mollie, "and--poof, go all our good resolutions."
"But you girls are all Helen of Troys compared to me when I cry," said
Grace, her tear-dimmed eyes fixed mournfully on space. "Why, after I've
had a good cry I cover up all the mirrors in the house for a couple of
days afterward."
"I guess," sighed Betty, "that just about everybody we know went away on
that train this morning. Oh, girls, I feel as though somebody were dead."
"Well, I'd rather be, than look like this," said Grace, eyeing her
somewhat disheveled reflection in the tiny mirror somberly.
"Oh, you're not quite as bad as that, Gracie," Betty comforted her,
laughing a little despite the ache at her heart. "A little cold water and
a curling iron will work wonders--"
"Betty," cried Grace, pausing in the act of applying still more powder to
the tip of her nose and regarding the Little Captain with a horrified
expression, "why drag the mention of such unromantic things into the
open--"
"Goodness, nothing could be much more unromantic than straight hair and
red noses," broke in Mollie practically. "It's lucky the boys don't do
this every day--I'd be a wreck in a week!"
"Well, at least you'd be wrecked in a good cause," said Betty, half
wistfully, half whimsically.
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