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fore her. The other guests likewise needed no urging. Huntley Van Horn lifted his glass.

“To our hostess, if any,” he remarked.

“That’s right—what’s become of Shelah?” Rita Ballou said. “We saw her for a moment when we came———”

“Shelah,” said Van Horn, with a cynical smile, “is no doubt lurking in the background waiting to make a grand and impressive entrance. She will ride in on a white charger, or descend on us from a balloon. You know, she goes in for that sort of thing———”

Julie and Jimmy Bradshaw rushed in, glowing and in high spirits. “Hello, Mr. Van Horn,” the girl cried. “Are you all that’s come?”

“To think,” he groaned, “that you could be so rude to me.”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” she laughed. “Where are all our other guests? Val Martino, Mr. Jaynes, Tarneverro———”

“Tarneverro coming?” Van Horn lifted his eyebrows. “In that case, I will have a second cocktail. Thanks so much.”

Quite unexpectedly there was the sound of steel guitars at the front door, and of many fresh young voices singing a Hawaiian song. Julie cried out with delight.

“A serenade from Shelah’s admirers,” she said. “Isn't that sweet? She will be pleased.” Her beach robe streaming behind her, she ran to the door and threw it open. She stood gazing out at a vast throng of high-school girls, laden with flowers. They stopped their song, and a young Japanese girl stepped forward. “We would like to see Shelah Fane, please.”