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foamed behind her like a boat's wake. The negligée was very lovely and Yvonne was very lovely. But ten a. m. and a little beauty like Cecily are a combination hard on even the loveliest of women grown. For the first time in his life, Jock thought Yvonne looked old. "As the hills!" he told himself, scandalized.

She must have realized—women are always sensitive of those things—yet she went straight to Cecily and put an arm about her shoulders. The effect was pictorial in the extreme. But it was rather terribly revealing.

"Our little toper here—" Yvonne smiled at Jock, squeezing Cecily affectionately "—needs some breakfast. Take her to some not too conspicuous place, will you, Jock Hamill? My dress doesn't seem to fit her any too well, and she can't wear her own in broad daylight, of course——"

"Look here, why aren't you going?" Jock wanted to know.

"Yes, come on, go with us, Yvonne," added Cecily.

"Can't," said Yvonne. "Can't possibly. I'm dead for sleep, and I'm going back to bed as soon as you two leave." She dimpled down at Cecily. "I hate to give you away, honey, but the truth will out! She chattered about you all night, Jock."

"Don't tell him what I said!" begged Cecily.

("My God," thought Jock, "a girl who can blush!")

"Oh, I won't, I'll never tell him," promised Yvonne.

After this Cecily vanished into the bedroom, muttering something about "safety pins," and Jock and Yvonne were alone. He kissed her gently, his hands framing her face. "I wish you'd come," he said.

"Honestly, my dear, I don't feel like it."

They exchanged a long look, Jock's quizzical, Yvonne's even and smiling. "What is the trouble?"