g in
her sudden movements. Moreover, she got up turning her face away from
Margaret, and made for the nearest mirror.

'Lord!' she exclaimed, laconically, as she looked at herself and
realised the full extent of the damage done.

'Wouldn't you like to wash your face?' asked Margaret, following her at
a discreet distance.

'My dear,' answered Madame Bonanni, in a perfectly matter-of-fact tone,
'it's awful, of course, but there's nothing else to be done!'

'Come into my dressing-room.'

'If I were at home, I should take a bath and dress over a--a--a----'
One last most unexpected sob half choked her and then made her cough,
till she stamped her foot with anger.

'Bah!' she cried with contempt when she got her breath. 'If I had often
made myself look like such a monster, I should have been a perfectly
good woman! The men would have run from me like mice from a barn on
fire! Have you got any of that Vienna liquid soap, my dear!'

Margaret had the liquid soap, as it chanced, and in a few moments she
was busily occupied in helping Madame Bonanni to restore her
appearance. Though long, the process was only partially successful,
from the latter's own point of view. Having washed away all that had
been, she produced a gold box from the bag she wore at her side. The
box was divided into three compartments containing respectively rouge,
white powder and a miniature puff for applying both, which she
proceeded to do abundantly, sitting at Margaret's toilet-table and
talking while she worked. She had made more confusion in the small
dressing-room in five minutes than Margaret could have made in dressing
twice over. Paint-stained towels strewed the floor, chairs were upset,
soap and water was splashed everywhere. Now she started afresh, by
rubbing plentiful daubs of rouge into her dark cheeks.

'But why do you put on so much?' Margaret asked in wonder.

'My dear, I'm an actress,' said Madame Bonanni. 'I'm not ashamed of my
profession! If I didn't paint, people would say I was trying to pass
myself off for a lady! Besides, now that I have cried, nothing but
powder will hide it. Look at my nose, my dear--just look at my nose!
Little Miss Donne'--she turned upon Margaret with sudden, tragic
energy--'don't ever let that wretched boy know that I cried about him!
Eh? Never! Promise you won't!'

'No, indeed! You may trust me. Why should I tell?'

'But it doesn't matter. Tell him if you like. I don't care. My life is
over now, an