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in the spangled dark the window four flights above went up again and Peg called, "Hey, Cec-i-lee! How's to have lunch with me Monday?"

In the roadster, Cecily relaxed, and the riotous vivacity that had been hers all afternoon—that was always hers—slipped suddenly away. She leaned limply in her corner of the seat.

"Tired?" queried Jock, peering sideways at her.

"Not specially."

Her face in the beam of the street lights had a queer pinched look about it. He became a little disturbed. "This is the first time I've seen you when you weren't packing the old wallop. Anything the matter, Cecily?"

"No."

The curt monosyllable disturbed him more. Good Lord, was she angry? She sounded that way—and yet what in the world——

"I think you might have told me you were going to marry Yvonne, Jock," said Cecily.

"What?" he cried out.

"You heard me, didn't you?"

"I heard you, but—Cecily, you don't mean to tell me you didn't know?"

Cecily's tone neither rebuked nor deplored. It simply answered, expressionlessly. "Of course I didn't know. I didn't know until we went into that apartment and what's-her-name played the Wedding March and then said she was sorry, she'd thought it was Yvonne.

"How would I have known?" she challenged, as Jock remained speechless with surprise. "You never said a word about it, did you?"

His mind skimmed their month of association . . . and could find no actual word that he had said to her of his engagement. This was utterly inconceivable to him. Nothing, he thought, had been further from his