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"There's a girl who's trying awfully hard to bow to you," she said, instead of an answer.

Jock followed her glance. Eunice . . . standing on the street corner, staring . . .

"Who was she?" Yvonne asked when they had passed.

"Nobody. Eunice Hathaway."

"She's very attractive."

"Yah," said Jock laconically. And dismissed Eunice forthwith. "What did you do with yourself, honey? Did you have a good time?"

"No."

"You didn't? Why not?"

"I don't believe—I'll ever have a very good time anywhere again—unless you are there."

She began this speech haltingly, and ended it in a rush. Jock could hardly credit the delicious evidence of his ears. "What?" he cried. He sat up straight, towering over her, and his brown eyes glinted. "Yvonne—sweetheart—do you mean that?"

"I'm afraid I do."

He peered at her a moment longer, to make sure. Then he emitted a mighty whoop. "You do! You mean that! Oh, gosh, Yvonne—" He would have kissed her then, regardless of onlookers, but she held him gently away.

"Not now," she said. "Not until I've told you what I came down here today to tell you. After that you may not want to kiss me—ever again."

Jock knew what she meant. Her story. She had promised, that last afternoon in New York, that when she returned she would tell him. . . . It had seemed important then, but it didn't now. Nothing was important now but her delicate softness beside him, her perfume in his nostrils, her voice saying, "—unless