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time he said nothing. Not until two weeks later did she hear from him how complete a change in his attitude toward Terrace Tavern Cecily's visit had wrought.

During those two weeks, she saw less of her lover than at any time in all the year of their intimacy. His days, formerly hers exclusively, were now the joint property of herself and Cecily—with the balance of hours perhaps a little on Cecily's side. This was right. This was as it should be. She encouraged it; and in the evenings, while they waited their turn at the roadhouse, she listened to Jock's accounts of his afternoons with Cecily, and smiled and smiled . . . wanting to cry . . .

Twice she invited Cecily to her own apartment when Jock was not there, to eat chocolates and discuss clothes, plays, parties—and him. She learned many things that Cecily did not intend to tell; and Cecily learned many things that Yvonne did intend to tell. And both of them seemed very happy, and one of them was.

Jock seemed happy only at intervals. At other times, he was troubled and morose. Yvonne saw plainly that he failed to understand his own mood, that he did not analyze it—probably for the reason that, deep in his subconscious mind, he was afraid to. She was not altogether surprised, therefore, one Saturday evening in mid-January, when he burst into a sudden storm of abuse of the Tavern, which he apparently blamed for all his present discontent.

He said, without preamble, "Oh good God, but they turn my stomach! Look at them, will you, Yvonne? Just look at 'em!"

Yvonne looked, and perceived nothing but the usual diners, the usual drinkers, the usual dancers, neither better nor worse than they usually were. She looked