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 hauteur of enviable proprietorship, bore her in triumph away.

"Just drive, Michael. Anywhere. It doesn't matter."

The chauffeur nodded, and the limousine lunged forward, a singing, winged thing. "We'll drive till we find a good inn," Yvonne continued, "and then we'll eat a lot of things—don't you always feel like eating a lot of things, weather like this?—and then we'll drive some more. How does that sound?"

"Too good to be true!" Jock leaned back, letting his body sink into the downy upholstery. "Some boat!" he commented. "Is it new?"

"No, I've had it—about a year."

He scarcely heard her, He had drawn her arm through his, and their faces were almost on a level. . . in the intoxication of such proximity he lost interest in the limousine completely. "Now!" he sighed. "I've been waiting—how many centuries is it?—for this minute." He thought he would kiss her; he longed achingly to kiss her. But it was high noon, and the streets were thickly peopled. . . . He looked away hastily from her red parted lips. "Funny," he mused, "now that it's over, and you're back, I'm just beginning to realize how very damn miserable I've been all this time. It was most particular hell, Yvonne."

"Was it? What-all did you do with yourself?"

"Oh—thought about you, and wondered about you, and wrote you poems, and letters that I couldn't send—why didn't you let me have your address, Beautiful?"

Yvonne hesitated, her eyes straying from his.