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positively not to come to see her the next day unless he brought the banjo with him. "Why won't you ever bring it, my dear? I must have asked you at least three times now. Don't you enjoy playing it, or what?"

"Sure, I like to whang away at it. But there's so much else to do when I'm with you——"

"Silly! You bring it tomorrow, or I won't let you in! I have a special reason for asking."

So he took it along, and pushed it through Yvonne's door ahead of him, crying "Passport!" meekly and plaintively. And he was admitted, by a particularly bewitching Yvonne in cornflower blue.

"You'd better!" she approved.

They embraced lingeringly, as was their custom. And they ran through the catechism peculiar to sweethearts:

"Love me?"

"Um-hum."

"How much?"

"Oceans."

"More than you did yesterday?"

"Oh, infinitely more!"

"Well, whose girl are you?"

And so on, with words that were threadbare in Eden.

"Now!" said Yvonne, when this was disposed of. "Let's get down to business. I want you to play all the latest ragtime, and I'll sing, and we'll see how it goes."

An hour later they agreed that it had gone beautifully. They disagreed as to why, and had quite a dispute about it, Jock stoutly maintaining that the voice was the thing, Yvonne reiterating that those chords and that double break were sufficient to make

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