reverent, irresponsible youth whom I had known at college.
I was watching Mary Gay at a party last week, rosy cheeked and bright eyed, and I thought I had never seen a happier and a more animated face. She was smiling on every one and showing a vivacity and an interest that held a pleased crowd about her. A few minutes later I came upon her unobserved as she was standing before the mirror in the hallway surreptitiously adjusting her false face, and I could see how pitifully bored and tired she looked.
These false faces which we wear or see every day seldom deceive anyone. They are like rouge or oleomargarine or hair dye or face powder—no one ever thinks them real. We put them on to make ourselves beautiful or impressive to our teachers or our sweethearts or the tax collector or the home folks or the minister or our Creator, but more often than otherwise the lock of red
