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looked at me. . . . Women know all about one another, my dear. I understood her."

"Say!" Jock snorted. "Well, you're wrong for once, honey. Eunice Hathaway doesn't care about anything in God's world except herself and—glitter."

Yvonne repeated the word meditatively. "That's your pet word, isn't it? I've heard you use it a hundred times."

"I'm for it," Jock declared. "It's expressive. Hard and bright and cold. Glitter. Just the sound of it! Things that shine and don't give any warmth. Things that attract your eyes at first and after that tire them till you have to look away. It's the one best word for the twentieth century—this generation 'in seven letters, horizontal.'"

There was a silence, then Yvonne said slowly, "I told you once it was the one best word for me. Yvonne Mountford 'in seven letters, horizontal.'"

"Yes, and you were a sweet little liar," Jock informed her with the utmost complaisance.

IX

When luncheon was over they drove again, and the end of a half hour brought them onto a road that ran along near the ocean. They could hear its murmurous chant from over beyond a sand dune at their right, and occasionally, when the dune dipped low, they could glimpse an atom of its bright blue-green. Presently Yvonne called a halt. "Stop, Michael! Stop right here!"

The great machine slid to tranquillity by the roadside, and Jock and Yvonne got out. "Come on," she

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