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you raved about her for two hours straight and never repeated yourself once——"

"Can't," interrupted Jock, grinning. "I work nights. Didn't Bones tell you?"

"For the love of Pete, are you still doing that?"

"I am."

Peg sat back in her chair, looking reproachful, and brandished a teaspoon at her husband. "Listen, Johnny! Listen while I tell you the tale of another good man gone wrong. This bunny you see before you, endowed by God with all the—Ow! Quit that, Jock! Johnny, he's pinching me!"

"Just the same," she said, when peace was restored, "I'm ashamed of you, Jock."

"I'm ashamed of myself," said Jock. And, momentarily, he was. Johnny Havens was the kind of new acquaintance to whom you would have liked to be able to say that you were in a brokerage office, or with an advertising firm, or, thought Jock, "anything respectable." He listened with avidity to such intermittent mention of his own business as Johnny made, and eyed him with esteem. Newspaper work . . . something pretty fine about that . . .

They parted at six o'clock, with resolutions for a soon reunion. "I'll call you up," said Peg from the taxi. "Been meaning to, anyway, but we've only been back from our trip two weeks—we went to Cuba, naturally, so Johnny could drown his woes. We'll give you a buzz—you too, Bill Olmstead—and Jock, you bring Yvonne when you come, and I'll make fudge and fried eggs, my two chef-d'oeuvres——"

"Great pair," remarked Bill, when they had pulled away.

"Yeah," Jock said. He stared after the receding rectangle of glass with the two heads . . . close to-