"Because we're going to take a walk in Central Park."
And they did. Somehow people always did what Yvonne wanted. Until evening dropped down on New York and the buildings were checkerboards of light and darkness they walked, and talked lightly (because Yvonne wanted it to be lightly) and grew pink with chill, and sparkling-eyed. . . .
"Isn't it glorious?" breathed Yvonne.
"Not as glorious as being back at your apartment."
Her laugh was a chord from a gay sweet song. "Don't you like Central Park?"
"I don't like any public place, with you, on our last"
She intentionally misunderstood him. "Now there's a pretty compliment!" she mocked. "Of course there are men who don't care to be seen about with me, but I didn't think the list included you!"
Sheer nonsense, of course. But Jock wished she would not say such things.
They walked slowly, sauntering. A couple to make tired faces lift and soften as they passed, the boy so young, so good to look at, the girl perhaps not quite as young, but exotic, picturesque, in a chinchilla coat and a hat that cast flattering shadows. . . . Jock held Yvonne's arm tucked close to him, and his eyes never left her. They caressed her, did her homage.
"You mustn't look like that, Jock Hamill."
"Like what?"
"As though you were in love with me."
"Good Lord, I am"
"Yes, but why let everybody know?"
They were nearing a bench on which reposed the shapeless figure of an old ragged man. Jock halted. "Sir," he said politely, "allow me to announce that
