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f loor with a bump, for at that moment the door swung open as though under the touch of a heavy hand. There appeared to be nobody there, but before Mr. Cohan could come round the bar to close it, a small and very fat dachshund bounded in, wagging his tail so vigorously that his whole rear end was agitated, and hurled himself on Mrs. Vacarescu.
     
                  "Here, Putzi!" she called, and stripped back the tarpaulin on the smaller bag. The little dog jumped in and seated himself contentedly. Mrs. Vacarescu replaced the tarpaulin and strode heavily out of Gavagan's.              
     

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MORE THAN SKIN DEEP
     
                  Mr. Jeffers turned around. "Hello, Mrs. Jonas," he said. "You're looking so beautiful tonight, I wouldn't mind buying you a drink."
     
                  "Thank you," said the brass-blonde, peering into the back of the room. "Isn't Alvin here yet? Then you can. There's absolutely nothing I need more than a drink. A Presidente, please."
     
                  She placed one foot on the rail. "Now, now, Mrs. Jonas," said the bartender. "The most beautiful woman in the place you may be, and a Presidente you may have, but you know the rule of Gavagan's. This is a respectable place, and we have tables for ladies."
     
                  "Oh, all right," said the brass-blonde. "Come on over and join me, Paul. I feel depressed and need company."
     
                  "What's the difficulty?" asked Jeffers, pulling out a chair for her. "The last dregs of a hangover or complications in your love life?"
     
                  "Not in mine, but some friends of mine. Do you know the Stewarts? Andy used to come in here a lot. He's that advertising man with Crackerjack and Whiffenpoof or something like that; I can never keep track of those names; and they change them every week, anyway."
     
                  Jeffers frowned. "I know him, yes. He's the big, solid chap who looks like a movie star. But I don't think I ever met his wife. What's happened to them?"
     
                  "They're getting a divorce," said Mrs. Jonas. "At least Betty-Jo is, and I don't see what else she can do, because he's just walked out on her and living with a lady wrestler. It's a shame, too, because she was so devoted to him; and Mrs.—the woman who wrote me about it—says she still is and wants him back. But I don't understand it, because he was perfectly crazy about her, too, and would hardly let her out of his sight before he went out there to take over the Chicago office of the agency. I wonder what could have happened. But I guess we never do understand what makes people fall into love with each other, or out of it either. Nobody knew what Andy Stewart saw in Betty-Jo in the first place. She dresses like something that came out of a rag bag; and she can't cook; and though she's quite nice, she's one of the most uninteresting people I ever met. They were married awfully quickly. That's probably why you didn't get to know her."
     
                  "If I had, I'd probably have thought she was wonderful, too," said Jeffers philosophically, sipping his beer. "With a low-cut dress and a couple of hours in a beauty parlor, any woman can make herself look like the Oueen of Sheba these days."
     
                  "It helps," admitted Mrs. Jonas, patting her hairdo complacently. "In preparation for my date with Alvin tonight, I went to a new place, and I must say I think they did a good job on me. Not that it matters to you, but it was Mme. Lavoisin's, over on Arcade Street."
     
                  With a tinkling crash, a glass shattered on the floor behind them. Jeffers and Mrs. Jonas looked around to see a smallish girl in a grey dress, with hair pulled straight back from her forehead, just standing up as Mr. Cohan hurried to mop up the debris of a spilled drink.