She smiled up at him engagingly, noting how his gray hair hung over the back of his collar. She felt no fear of him whatever. "I think you're nice, Mr. Man-Who-Makes-Faces," she announced presently. "I'm so glad I can look straight at you. I didn't know you, 'cause your voice is different, and 'cause I'd never seen you before 'cept when I was looking _down_ at you."

He had been ignoring her. But now, "Wasn't my fault that we didn't meet face to face," he retorted. Though his voice was still cross, his round, bright eyes were almost kind. "If you'll remember I often came under your window."

"And I threw you money," she answered, nodding brightly. "I wanted to come down and talk to you, oh, lots of times, only--"

At that, he relented altogether. And, reaching out, shook hands cordially. "Wouldn't you like," said he, "to have a look at my establishment?" He jerked a thumb over a shoulder. "Here's where I make faces."

In the City she had seen many wonderful shops, catching glimpses of some from the little window of her car, visiting others with Miss Royle or Jane. Among the former were those fascinating ones, usually low of ceiling and dark with coal-dust, where grimy men in leather aprons tried shoes on horses; and those horrifying places past which she always drove with closed eyes--places where, scraped white and head downward, hung little pigs, pitiful husks of what they once had been, flanked on either hand by long-necked turkeys with poor glazed eyes; and once she had seen a wonderful shop in which men were sawing out flat pieces of stone, and writing words on them with chisels.

But this shop of the Man-Who-Makes-Faces was the most interesting of all.

It occupied a square of hard-packed ground--a square as broad as the nursery. And curiously enough, like the nursery, it had, marking it off all the way around its outer edge, a border of flowers!

It was shaded by one huge tree.

"Lime-tree," explained the little old gentleman. "And the lights--"

"Don't tell me!" she cried. "I know! They're lime lights."

These made the shop exceedingly bright. Full in their glare, neatly disposed, were two short-legged tables, a squat stool, and a high, broad bill-board.

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces seated himself on the stool at one of the tables and began working industriously.

But Gwendolyn could only stand and stare about her, so amazed that she was dumb. For in front of the little old gentleman, and spread handily, were ears and eyes, noses and mouths, cheeks and chins and foreheads.

And upon the bill-board, pendant, were toupees and side-burns and mustaches, puffs, transformations and goatees--and one coronet braid (a red one) glossy and thick and handsome!

The bill-board also held an assortment of tongues--long and scarlet.

These, a score in all, were ranged in a shining row. And underneath them was a sign which bore this announcement:

_Tongues In All Languages Dead or Modern Chic if Seven Are Purchased at Once_.

Gwendolyn clapped her hands. "Oo! how _nice!_" she exclaimed, finding her voice again.

"Quite so," said the little old gentleman, shoving away a tray of chins and cheeks and reaching for a forehead. "Welcome, convenient, and satisfactory."

She saw her opportunity. "Please," she began, "I'd like to buy six." She counted on her fingers. "I'll have a French tongue, a German tongue, a Greek tongue, a Latin tongue, and--later, though, if you don't happen to have 'em on hand--a Spanish and an Italian." Then she heaved a sigh of relief. "I'm glad I saw these," she added. "They'll save me a lot of work. And they've helped me about a def'nition. I looked for 'lashing'

in my big dictionary. And it said 'to whip.' But _I_ couldn't see how anybody could whip anybody else with a _tongue_. Now, though--"

The Man-Who-Makes-Faces nodded. "Just wait till you see the King's English," he bragged.

"The King's English? Will I see him?"

"Likely to," he answered, selecting an eye. He had all his eyes about him in a circle, each looking as natural as life. There were blue eyes and brown eyes, hazel eyes and--

"Ah!" she exclaimed suddenly. "I remember! It was _you_ who gave the Policeman a black eye!"

"One _fine_ black eye," he answered, chuckling as he poked about in a pile of noses and selected a large-sized one. "Yes! Yes! And recently I made a lovely blue pair for a bad-tempered child who'd cried her own eyes out."

She assented. She had heard of just such a case. "Once I saw some eyes in a shop-window," she confided. "It was a shop where you could buy spectacles."

He wagged his beard proudly. "I made every _one_ of 'em!" he boasted.

"Oh, yes, indeed." And polished away at the tip of the large nose.

She considered for a moment. "I'm glad I know," she said gravely. "I wanted to, awful much."

After that she studied the bill-board for a time. And presently discovered that a second supply of eyes was displayed there, being set in it as jewels are set in brooches!

She pointed. "What kind are those?"

He looked surprised at the question. "The bill-board is the rear wall of my shop," said he. "And those eyes are wall-eyes."

She flushed with pleasure. "That's _exactly_ what I thought!" she declared.

She began to walk up and down, one hand in the patch-pocket--to make sure it was really there. For this was all too good to be true. Here, in this Land so new to her, and so wonderful, were things about which she had pondered, and puzzled, and asked questions--the tongues, for instance, and the lime-lights, and the soda-water. How simply and naturally each was now explained!--explained as she herself had imagined each would be. She felt a sudden pride in herself. So far had anything been really unexpected? As she went back to pause in front of the little old gentleman, it was with a delightful sense of understanding. Oh, this was one of her pretend-games, gloriously come true!

Now she felt a very flood of questions surge to her lips. She pointed to a deep yellow bowl set on the table beside him. "Would you mind telling me what that is?" she asked.

"That? That's a sauce-box." And he smiled.

"Oh!--What's it full of, please?"

"Full of mouths,"--cheerily.

It was her turn to smile. She smiled into the sauce-box. At its center was a queer object, very like a short length of dried apple-peeling.

"I s'pose that's part of a mouth?" she ventured.

He picked up the object and balanced it across his thumb. "You've guessed it!" he declared. "And it's a fine thing to carry around with one. You see, it's a stiff upper lip." He tossed it back.

"My!" She took a deep breath. "Once I asked and _asked_ about a stiff upper lip."

He went on with his polishing. "Should think you'd be more interested in these," he observed, giving a nod of the ragged hat toward a shallow dish at his elbow. "Little girls generally are."

She looked, and saw that the dish was heaped high with what seemed to be _white peanuts_--peanuts that tapered to a point at one end. She puckered her brows over them.

"Can't guess?" said he. "Then you didn't drink enough of that soda-water. Well, ever hear of a sweet tooth?"

At that she clapped her hands and jumped up and down. "Why, I've _got_ one!" she cried.

"Oh?" said the little old gentleman. "Thought so. I _always_ keep a supply on hand. Carve 'em myself, out of cube sugar."

"Oh, aren't they funny!" She leaned above the shallow dish.

"Funny?" repeated the Man-Who-Makes-Faces. "Not when they get into the wrong mouth!--a wry mouth, for instance, or an ugly mouth. A sweet tooth should go, you understand, only with a sweet face."

"Is it a sweet tooth that makes a face sweet?" she inquired.

"Quite so." He held up the nose to examine it critically.