"What do you think of her," he demanded without preamble.
"Who?"
Benny's eyes widened. "Good goat, man, haven't you seen her? Where've you been the last half hour? Look—look over there—no, there—dancing with Bill Parks"
"Who is she?" queried Jock in a new tone.
"Her name's Yvonne and she's from New York," said Benny. "That's all I know about her. I've cut in four times now, but every time I no more than pop off a cordial 'hello' before some fathead cuts in on me. Did you ever see a smoother job, though, no kidding?"
Jock was forced to admit that he never had. The girl was more than lovely; she was spectacular. Red hair, tight black gown ornamented solely by a diamond bar pin and the faultless figure of the wearer—she compelled the eye, seemed to dare you not to stare at her and to laugh at you because you couldn't help it. Intently he watched her progress around the room . . . so intently that he failed at first to hear the voice of the club steward at his ear. "Mr. Hamill! Message for you, Mr. Hamill!"
A scrap of paper, folded twice, and addressed to him in Molly's writing. "I've gone home, Jock," it ran, "with Alice and her husband. You were so cool to me—and on our last evening together, too—that I just couldn't stand coming back and dancing around as though nothing had happened."
Jock thrust this missive into the pocket of his dinner coat, his sole sensation one of relief. An instant later he was bearing down upon the girl named Yvonne, the girl named Molly dismissed from his mind as completely as though she had never had a place there.
