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LONE with Clara in room Number 12 at Jen Cordeen's, Marjorie tensely dropped off her cape, went to her glass and stared at herself and turned about to discover Clara out of her dancing dress and limp on her back on her bed, with arms stretched above her head and yawning peacefully at the ceiling. "Gawd, I'm sleepy!"

"Sleepy!" Marjorie shot back so excitedly that Clara started up and sat, leaning on her hands.

"Why, anything happen to you to-night, dearie?" she demanded with suspicious concern.

"Anything!" Marjorie repeated, glaring at her roommate; and she gave a gesture of hopelessness.

"Bourbon don't keep me awake," Clara volunteered, as though having come to the conclusion that Marjorie complained of excitation from that. "Does just the opposite to me. Just want to sleep; that's all." And she yawned again but did not lie down. "Come on, get it off your chest, kid," Clara invited, pulling out a couple of hairpins and shaking down her hair.

"Clara, every man I danced with to-night—but one—was—was"

"What?" urged Clara indistinctly, for the hairpins between her lips.

"Trying me!"

Clara's hair had fallen, perhaps by accident, before her face. "Sure," she said, still impeded by hairpins. "You were a new one to them and mighty damn good