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 swift little hush and a hundred pairs of following eyes. He attributed such marked display of interest to Yvonne's beauty, and it elated him. He felt an immense superiority over all the men in the room with whom she had not been lunching. "You certainly knock 'em for a loop," he said in her ear with approval.

"Hum," answered Yvonne, "they look, but who knows what they're saying?"

Jock dismissed this as being mere idle cynicism, meaning nothing.

He left his machine outside the apartment house and accompanied her up in the elevator to her own door. "You won't come in, Jock Hamill," she said with her hand on the knob.

"I want to, but I can't possibly—have to meet some fellows at four and it's almost that now."

"You'll come again soon, though." It wasn't a question; it was a statement of recognized fact.

"Of course."

Yvonne stood looking at him a long moment out of her remarkable eyes,—a look that seemed to hypnotize him somehow, making him powerless to move or to say anything. Then without a word she vanished into the apartment and shut the door behind her.

Jock thought, waiting for the elevator to come for him again, how appropriate to herself were even the smallest things Yvonne did. Not commonplace. Not orthodox. Effectively different, like her appearance and her speech. "If she'd said good-bye, and thanked me for the luncheon, the way any other girl would have," he told himself, "I'd have had a let-down feeling, sort of."

After an interval he added more matter-of-factly, "Speaking of let-down feelings, where's the damn elevator?"