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stripped now of most of its ornaments and possessed of such deputy ones as a wisp of chiffon handkerchief, an ostrich feather pompom off a dress, two hats, a corkscrew, and a man's limp string of collar.

Little tin horns whined, and little cardboard horns with peppermint-candy stripes tooted and bleated, and little souvenir hammers, marked "August Schultz wishes you a Happy New Year," rat-a-tat-tatted ceaselessly. And, as though this were not noise enough, there was added to it the nasal yell of the saxophones, the deep boom of the drum, the fret of chairs pushed back suddenly . . . and the screaming talk . . . and the squawking laughter . . .

"It's incredible, isn't it," said Yvonne, "that mere flesh-and-blood ears can stand a racket like this?"

Jock smiled at her adoringly Almost any man would have smiled adoringly at Yvonne that night. Gasped first—and then adored. She was wearing a creation of pearly white velvet that covered her chest to the throat, where a tight high collar of rhinestones held it, but that had no back whatever and very little side; and the strands of her shimmering ruddy hair were wrapped smoothly around her head and held with a crescent-shaped rhinestone pin. . . . It's incredible," he retorted justifiably, "that mere flesh-and-blood eyes can look at you without blinking. You're so superb that it's——"

"Sh-h! They'll hear you, my dear!"

"They" were six in number—New Year's Eve revelers at whose table Yvonne and Jock were seated. The host, Barney Blaine, owner of several cinema theaters, had known Yvonne "when she sold smokes for a living," as he was fond of saying to Jock's chagrin, and had insisted tonight that they "come on over here and be sociable." So here they were. Yvonne. Jock.