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Laughed in her sleeve—and a great deal more! For with each chuckle, from the top of her red head to her very feet, she grew a trifle more plump!

The little old gentleman warned her with one long finger. “You look out, young lady!” said he. “One of these days you’ll laugh on the other side of your face.” (Which made Gwendolyn wish that it was not impolite to correct those older than herself; for it was plain that he meant “you’ll laugh on your other face.”)

Jane put out a tongue-tip at him insolently. Then dancing near, “Come!” she bade Gwendolyn. “Come away with Nurse.”

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces made no effort to interpose. But he wagged his head significantly. “It’s evident, Miss Jane,” said he, “that you’ve forgotten all about—the Piper.”

She came short. And showed herself upset by what he had said, for she did a hop-schottische.

He was not slow to take advantage. “We’re sure to see him shortly,” he went on. “And when we do—! Because your account with him is adding up terrifically. You’re dancing a good deal, you know.”

“How can I help that?” demanded Jane. “Ain’t I dancin’ atten—”

Gwendolyn forgot to listen to the remainder of the sentence. All at once she was a little apprehensive on her own account—remembering how she had danced beside the soda-water, not half an hour before!

“Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Faces,” she began timidly, “do you mean the Piper that everybody has to pay?”

“Exactly,” replied the little old gentleman. “He’s out collecting some pay for me now—from a dishonest fellow who didn’t settle for two dozen ears that I boxed and sent him.”

At that, Jane began tittering harder than ever (hysterically, this time), holding up her arm as before—and filling out two or three wrinkles in the black sateen! And Gwendolyn, watching closely, saw that while the front face of her nurse was all a-grin, the face on the back of her head wore a nervous expression. (Evidently that front face was not always to be depended upon!)

The little old gentleman also remarked the nervous expression. And followed up the advantage already won. “Now,” said he, “perhaps you’ll be willing to come along quietly. We’re just starting, you understand.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Gwendolyn glanced in the direction he pointed. And saw—for the first time—that a wide, smooth road led away from the Face-Shop, a road as wide and smooth and curving as the Drive. Like the Drive it was well-lighted on either side (but lighted low-down) by a row of tiny electric bulbs with frosted shades, each resembling an incandescent toadstool. (She remembered having once caught a glimpse of something similar in a store-window.) These tiny lamps were set close together on short stems, precisely as white stones of a selected size edged all the paths at Johnnie Blake’s. And each gave out a soft light. She did not have to ask about them. She guessed promptly what they were—lights to make plain the way for people’s feet: in short, nothing more nor less than footlights!

A few times in her life—so few that she could tell them off on her pink fingers—she had been taken to the theater, Jane accompanying her by right of nurse-maid, Miss Royle by her superior right as judge of all matters that partook of entertainment; Thomas coming also, though apparently for no reason whatever, to grace a rear seat along with the chauffeur. Seated in a box, close to the curved edge of the stage, she had seen the soft glow of the footlights. But for some reason which she could not fathom, the footlights had always been carefully concealed from everyone but the people on the stage. Trying to imagine them without any suggestions from Miss Royle or Jane, she had patterned them after a certain stuffed slipper-cushion that stood on Jane’s dressing-table. How different was the reality, and how much more satisfactory!

Jane looked up the road, between the lines of footlights. “You’re just startin’,” she repeated. “Where?”

“To find her father and mother,” answered the Man-Who-Makes-Faces, stoutly.

At that Jane shook her huge pompadour. “Father and mother!” she cried. “Indeed, you won’t! Not while I’m a-takin’ care of her.” And reaching out, caught Gwendolyn—by a slender wrist.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seized the other. And the next moment Gwendolyn was unpleasantly reminded of times in the nursery, times when, Miss Royle and Jane disagreeing about her, each pulled at an arm and quarreled. For here was the nurse, tugging one direction to drag her away, and the little old gentleman tugging the other with all his might.