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women have dirty necks," said another, on the reverse side of a tinted picture of the Arc de Triomphe. . . . It was August . . . September . . . sequence of drawling, mellow days.

He lay late abed every morning, and took a combination breakfast and lunch with Yvonne, either at her apartment, where they made electric coffee and electric toast and chafing-dish scrambled eggs, or at his own apartment, where the ubiquitous Bennett served them, Then they sallied forth. Sometimes to a matinee. Sometimes to a vaudeville show, for business reasons. Sometimes to buy new ragtime selections at a little Broadway shop, and take them back and try them out together. Sometimes, if the day was hot, to scoot into the country in the roadster, or to swim at some not too populous beach. That is, Jock swam; Yvonne merely waded, or sat on the sand in a one-piece black suit with her unbound hair blazing about her face, and watched. "Swimming is not in my line," she would say, "and I never let anyone see me do anything I don't know how to do well."

And nights. Glamorous, glittering, bright-white nights. "Playboy nights," Jock termed them. They went out to Terrace Tavern every evening about seven, returned every morning about one. They laughed a great deal, and danced a great many dances together, and a few with suppliant patrons when they could not discreetly avoid it. August Schultz liked to have his entertainers appear unofficially, and mingle with his guests. "Good business," said August, which meant that it was Law. Their work improved more and more, and, in response to public demand, they performed three times every evening instead of twice, giving each time several encores.

"As nearly as I can ascertain," reported Saunders