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 to him, muffled by the fur. "I hope you will be very happy, Jock," said Cecily.

With his fingers he pulled the collar down and drew her chin around so that she faced him again. "God bless your little heart! It means a lot to me to hear you say that, Cecily"

She cut him off. "Why don't we go on? It's getting late."

They went on.

"But of course," remarked Jock on the end of a long and thoughtful silence, "it doesn't make any difference"

Cecily's eyes flashed, and her reply was so quick that it had the effect of a pounce upon his sentence. "ofOf [sic] course not!" she said. "Why should it? I—I'll be married myself before you are. I'm going to marry Bill. Right away.

"I've been meaning to tell you for days," she added.

Yvonne sat before the mirror in her dressing room. All about her were indications of a permanent leavetaking. The costumes that had hung behind a sheet in the corner were gone now, and only the sheet and a few hangers remained. Shroud and bones. . . . The dressing table was quite bare, and behind Yvonne's chair two suitcases, shut and strapped, lay waiting.

It was long after midnight. They had given their final songs, made their final bow to Terrace Tavern, and Yvonne knew that even now Jock would be fuming with impatience, wondering why she did not come. Yet she sat there, without moving. From the square of