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 with its enormous monogram, lifting her feet so the deck steward could tuck the rug around them. "Yes, indeed, a heavenly morning. . . . Really? Does anybody call this rough?"

She had her writing portfolio; she was going to finish her letter to Joe. But first she must look at this bright blue sky, feel the soft air stroke her cheeks and lift the ends of her hair. Then the steward stepped over the high brass sill with a tray of cups. She drank her bouillon and listened to the mild little man gotten up in loud sport clothes being polite to the bleached blonde two chairs away.

"How er you this merning?"

"Just fine, thenk you! How's Mrs. Dole?"

"Well, she feels kinda mean this merning; she thinks she musta eaten something."

"Say, there's quite a roll this merning; I guess a lot of folks eren't feeling any too good."

She would write to Joe about that cream-and-black checkerboard cap, the green knickerbockers bristly as wild cucumbers. She put down the cup and the sloppy saucer and opened her portfolio. But that was as far as the letter got, for Tommy Irving came along to pull her up—"That one don't mind showing her legs!" Mrs. O'Dowd told Mrs. Marx—and make her take a walk.

Blue sky, blue sea, tingling health, when so many of the rug-wrapped cocoons were wan, Tommy so tall and good-looking in his not-too-new English clothes,