an angel in it." June smiled. "And Mary...?"

"Yes, Miss Bestris?"

"Mary. Did you buy that neo-nylon I told you about?"

"No, Miss Bestris."

"Mary, Mary, Mary. I just don't understand you at all."

"I'm saving my money, Miss Bestris," Mary said intently.

"Yes, dear, I know that. We're all saving our money. But we simply must look presentable. We have a reputation to hold up."

"Yes, Miss Bestris."

"Then, Mary, dear, do—do, please, buy yourself something decent."

"Yes, Miss Bestris. I will.... Tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, if I ..."

"Child? If you what?"

"Nothing, Miss Bestris."

"Well. See that you get it tomorrow. If you don't, I'm afraid I'll have to take some of your money and get it for you."

Mary looked down at the floor. The flaming glow of the hydrojet torches cast golden lights in her softly purple hair.

"By the way, Mary. Is that your cake in the oven?"

"Yes, Miss Bestris."

The other girls snickered.

"Let her alone," said the Madame. "If she wants to bake a cake, why shouldn't she?"

No one answered.

Miss Bestris went on around the room, discussing the girls' clothing, brushing this girl's hair, pinching that girl's cheek, chucking this one under the chin, smiling, frowning. Then finally she stepped back and nodded.

"You all look quite good, I think. I can be proud of you. And now, I want you all to go to your rooms and make them extra attractive, and then try to get a little rest, so you'll all be especially beautiful when the boys come. Run along now."

The girls filed out, and night continued to settle. After a while, her cigarette glowing in the gloom, the Madame waddled to her office. There three people were waiting for her.

She waved her cigarette hand with a once delicate gesture and flame light glinted dully on the gold band. "Please don't get up for me," she said, but her tone was condescending and the three visitors sat down respectfully.

Miss Bestris crossed to her desk; she perched on a corner of it, leaned back, blew smoke.

"You wanted to see me about your girls?"

Two of the people, man and wife, looked at each other. "Yes," they said. And the other man said, "Yes."

"Did you bring any pictures?"

They handed her pictures, and she held them up to the overhead torch. She studied them critically, pursing and unpursing her lips in secret calculation.

"This one," she said finally, holding out one of the pictures.

The man and wife rustled their clothing; they smiled faintly proud at each other.

The other man got up slowly, retrieved his picture, left the room without saying a word.

"We can't do for little Lavada," the woman whined. "She was a late child, and we're getting old, and we thought she would be better here. It's hard to do for a growing girl when you get old. And my husband can't keep steady work, because of his health and ..."

"I'm sure she will be happy here," the Madame said, smiling.

"Yes," the man agreed. "It's for the best. But—you know—well, we hate to do it."

"How old is she?"

"... Fourteen."

Miss Bestris studied the picture again. "She doesn't look over twelve."

"She's fourteen."

"And healthy—"

"We have doctors to see to that," the Madame said. "How much did you have in