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edition to a certain page, and point, and say, "That's mine," even though "that" might be nothing more vital than a string of obituary notices collected over the 'phone or a paragraph beginning, "An exhibition of useful and fancy articles made by inmates of the Hudson Home for the Blind" . . .

Unfortunately, however, work did not fill every waking hour. His evenings were miserable. He spent them at home, reading a little, brooding much, stubbornly thwarting the efforts of his friends to provide him with entertainment. "For gosh sakes, Jock, anybody'd think you were in mourning!" Peg wailed, after her tenth invitation to Washington Square had been turned down. To which Jock replied—though not aloud—"I am."

As a matter of fact his avoidance of companionship was less in mourning than in self-defense. He feared that people might try to talk to him about Yvonne, and as yet he winced whenever that spot was touched by any finger—whether curiously prodding or gently compassionate made no difference. In this respect his mother was a source of satisfaction, for she had the great good sense to behave as though nothing whatever had happened. He appreciated this the more because he suspected she was glad of his catastrophe, and because he thought, since he had given her but the barest outline of it, she must be burning with unasked questions. He could not guess that Mrs. Hamill felt no need of questions; that her understanding was far deeper than his own, and her new thought of Yvonne a mixture of gratitude, admiration, and something akin to love. "Some day," she told Saunders Lincoln, "—not for a long, long time, of course, but some day, I'm going to let Jock know what a beautiful thing it was that that girl did."