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engaged, and somewhere she had broken it off. At first, when Dexter had definitely given her up, it had made him sad that people still linked them together and asked for news of her, but when he began to be placed at dinner next to Irene Scheerer people didn't ask him about her any more--they told him about her. He ceased to be an authority on her.

    May at last. Dexter walked the streets at night when the darkness was damp as rain, wondering that so soon, with so little done, so much of ecstasy had gone from him. May one year back had been marked by Judy's poignant, unforgivable, yet forgiven turbulence--it had been one of those rare times when he fancied she had grown to care for him. That old penny's worth of happiness he had spent for this bushel of content.
    He knew that Irene would be no more than a curtain spread behind him, a hand moving among gleaming tea-cups, a voice calling to children . . .
    fire and loveliness were gone, the magic of nights and the wonder of the varying hours and seasons . . . slender lips, down-turning, dropping to his lips and bearing him up into a heaven of eyes. . . . The thing was deep in him. He was too strong and alive for it to die lightly.

    In the middle of May when the weather balanced for a few days on the thin bridge that led to deep summer he turned in one night at Irene's house. Their engagement was to be announced in a week now--no one would be surprised at it. And to-night they would sit together on the lounge at the University Club and look on for an hour at the dancers. It gave him a sense of solidity to go with her--she was so sturdily popular, so intensely "great."

    He mounted the steps of the brownstone house and stepped inside.

    "Irene," he called.

    Mrs. Scheerer came out of the living-room to meet him.

    "Dexter," she said, "Irene's gone up-stairs with a splitting headache. She wanted to go with you but I made her go to bed."

    "Nothing serious, I----"

    "Oh, no. She's going to play golf with you in the morning. You can spare her for just one night, can't you, Dexter?"

    Her smile was kind. She and Dexter liked each other. In the living-room he talked for a moment before he said good-night.

    Returning to the University Club, where he had rooms, he stood in the doorway for a moment and watched the dancers. He leaned against the door-post, nodded at a man or two--yawned.

    "Hello, darling."
    The familiar voice at his elbow startled him. Judy Jones had left a man and crossed the room to him--Judy Jones, a slender enamelled doll in cloth of gold: gold in a band at her head, gold in two slipper points at her dress's hem. The fragile glow of her face seemed to blossom as she smiled at him. A breeze of warmth and light blew through the room. His hands in the pockets of his dinner-jacket tightened spasmodically. He was filled with a sudden excitement.

    "When did you get back?" he asked casually.
    "Come here and I'll tell you about it."

    She turned and he followed her. She had been away--he could have wept at the wonder of her return. She had passed through enchanted streets, doing things that were like provocative music. All mysterious happenings, all fresh and quickening hopes, had gone away with her, come back with her now.

    She turned in the doorway.
    "Have you a car here? If you haven't, I have."

    "I have a coup_."

    In then, with a rustle of golden cloth. He slammed the door. Into so many cars she had stepped--like this--like that-- her back against the leather, so--her elbow resting on the door-- waiting. She would have been soiled long since had there been anything to soil her--except herself--but this was her own self outpouring.

    With an effort he forced himself to start the car and back into the street.
    This was nothing, he must remember. She had done this before, and he had put her behind him, as he would have crossed a bad account from his books.
    He drove slowly down-town and, affecting abstraction, traversed the deserted streets of the business section,