closer about her the soft, warm folds of Leo—not the original Leo of the light-bracket above her bed but a twin to him lent her by Art Slengel and to become her own, irrevocably, when Sam Metten signed that order, and Phil Metten O.K.'d it.
Di disembarked, airily leaving the change of a two dollar bill for a Christmas tip to the driver. Ellen opened the room door. "Happy New Year!" hailed Di and kissed her.
Ellen kissed her and Di clung, impulsively, and suddenly having had no plan of diversion of question from herself, Di demanded, "Ellen, seen the morning paper?"
"Yes," said Ellen.
"So've I. Somebody brought one in to the party 'bout midnight. One of the men; we were all speaking about it," Di related, conveying an idea, she hoped, of the size and propriety of the party. "Jay Rountree ran off and got married, they say."
Ellen stood away from Di.
"D'you know who had the paper?" Di queried, not dropping the inspiration of this tack. "Your friend Lew Alban."
"What?" asked Ellen.
"Sure. He came to the party."
"He went home," said Ellen, more to herself than to Di. Lew Alban, she thought, had gone on the six o'clock train.
"Yeah; he did drop out 'bout one. Had to catch the late St. Louis train. But we had him for a while. Nice man."
"Have you slept at all?" asked Ellen.
"Some; at May Cobbel's. But I can sleep some more;
