'Guid-e'enin' to ye,' Teen said in her monotonous voice, and without a
smile or brightening of her face. 'Fine dry nicht. We're late, Liz, ten
minutes.'

'Oh, it doesna matter. We'll mak' a sensation,' said Liz, with a grim
smile. 'A' the same, we'd better hurry up an' get oor sixpenceworth.'

'Where are we going?' asked Gladys rather doubtfully.

'Oh, ye'll see. I promised ye a treat,' answered Liz; and the trio
quickened their steps until they came to a narrow entrance, illuminated,
however, by a blaze of gas jets, and adorned about the doorway with
sundry bills and pictures of music-hall _artistes_.

Before Gladys could utter the least protest, she was whisked in, paid
for at the box, and hurried up-stairs into a brilliantly-lighted hall,
the atmosphere of which, however, was reeking with the smoke and the
odour of tobacco and cheap cigars. Somebody was singing in a high,
shrill, unlovely voice, and when Gladys looked towards the platform
behind the footlights, she was horrified at the spectacle of a large,
coarse-looking woman, wearing the scantiest possible amount of clothing,
her face painted and powdered, her hair adorned with gilt spangles, her
arms and neck hung with sham jewellery.

'Who is she? Is it not awful?' whispered Gladys, which questions sent
the undemonstrative Teen off into one of her silent fits of laughter.

But Liz looked a trifle annoyed.

'Don't ask such silly questions. That's Mademoiselle Frivol, and she's