(_LATEST STYLE._)
We four are _such_ friends, Estelle, Rosalie, Beryl and I. If we
weren't could we sit round and say the things to each other that we
do? I ask you.
It's quite a small flat we have, just the one room, but it's _so_
convenient. There's a chemist's next door, so it's no walk to get
_everything_ we require.
We were sitting round our cosy fireplace, wishing it were summer or
that we had some coal, when one of those thoughts that make me so
loved occurred to me.
"Estelle darling," I asked, though I knew, because the box was on the
mantelpiece; "how _do_ you get that lovely flush? Your nose is such a
_delicious_ tint; it reminds me of a tomato."
"I owe my colour to my fur coat," replied Estelle frankly; "you've
no idea how warm it keeps me. I think a natural glow is so much more
becoming than an artificial one."
"By the way, Madge," put in Rosalie (I'm Madge), "as you've started
the game may I ask you a question? How do you get such a lovely shine
on _your_ nose?"
"Chamois leather," I replied sweetly. (You see we're such friends we
love telling each other our boudoir secrets.)
"I wish I knew how you keep those cunning little curls, Estelle,"
sighed Beryl longingly. "_My_ hair is so horribly straight."
"It's quite easy," explained Estelle; "you can do it with any ordinary
flat-iron, though of course an electric-iron is the best. If you heat
the iron over the gas or fire (if any) it gets sooty, and if you've
golden hair, as I have this year--well. Only," she went on warningly,
"always see that you lay your curl flat on the table before you iron
it."
"I wish I could get my hands as white as yours, Beryl," I said.
"You can't expect to, darling; working at Whitehall as you do your
fingers are bound to get stained with nicotine. Warm water and soap is
all _I_ use. First I immerse my hands in tepid water, then I rub the
soap (you can get it at any chemist's or oil-shop) into the pores--you
'd be surprised how it lathers if you do it the right way--and then
I rinse the soap off again. I learnt that trick from watching our
washer-woman--she had such lovely hands."
"Why do you never use powder now, Estelle?" asked Rosalie. "Before the
War one could never come near you without leaving footprints."
"My reasons were partly patriotic, conserving the food supply, you
know, and partly owing to the mulatto-like tint the war-flour gave me.
One doesn't want to go about looking half-baked, does one?"
"No," we murmured, making a pretty concerted number of it.
"But wrinkles, darling Estelle," I pleaded--"do tell us what you do
for your wrinkles."
"Wrinkles," murmured Estelle, with a pretty puckering of her brow--"I
haven't any left; I've given them all to you."
[EDITORIAL NOTE.--This series will not be continued in our next
issue.]
* * * * *
"MUSICAL.
1916 car, nearly new, two-seater body, hood, screen, complete,
£13."--_Provincial Paper_.