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 grinned suddenly. "Say, you have got my number for sure, haven't you?"

Peg nodded approvingly. "That's right, admit it! It's about time. Take off the old clown-suit, I know you."

"It's off," announced Jock. "Now what?"

"Now," said Peg, burrowing deeper into her chair and leaning her head back, "tell me all about your girl."

Of a sudden this seemed extremely desirable—to tell Peg all about Yvonne. Jock had not known how much he had wanted to tell someone about her ever since the beginning, nor how greatly his heart had yearned for an audience sympathetic and comprehending, as Peg would be.

So he told her. Hesitantly, at first, because confession was an unaccustomed luxury with him, but waxing more loquacious as he went along. He described his meeting with Yvonne, and the hours he had spent with her since, and the things she had done and said. He essayed a description. He told of his wretchedness and the vacuity of his days, now, when she was away. . . . He talked for a long time, and he was boyishly lovable and appealing, and very, very earnest.

When he had finished he felt better than he had felt in weeks. As though a tension had snapped. Telling someone, some outsider, how wonderful Yvonne was seemed to bring back her wonderfulness anew. It was almost like seeing her. "What's been the matter with me?" he wondered, "—thinking the things I have been about her. They're not true. Why, I know they're not true!" . . . He was grateful to Peg beyond words. It seemed to him that just by sitting there motionless, watching him as he talked,