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in electricity, two kitchen chairs, and an assortment of gowns that peeped from behind a sheet stretched across one corner. It had no windows, but after the heat and smoke of the place they had left it seemed cool, airy, delicious. And so quiet! The outer commotion was a monotone now, like city traffic distantly heard. The jazz was a purring throb:

Cecily sat down, pushing her hair back from her forehead with a petulant hand. "Nice in here," she breathed relievedly.

Jock stood over her solemnly. "Are you all right, Cecily?"

"Uh-huh."

She was avoiding his eyes, and it occurred to him that she had given no slightest sign of recognition, neither in that first instant when he lifted her from the floor, nor since. "You don't know who I am, do you?" he said.

Cecily glanced up then, surprised, even scornful. "Of course I do," she said simply. "You're Jock."

The next minute her features underwent an unexpected metamorphosis. They puckered like a colicky baby's, and two tears splashed over the rim of her eyelids and traced glinting zigzags down her cheeks. "Oh, dear," she lamented, "everything's gone wrong—everything has——"

Yvonne reached her in a swift rush. "Here, don't cry, honey! You mustn't cry."

"I can't h-help it! Everything's——"

Yvonne knelt beside the chair and dabbed at the