"May I cut, please?"
Another instant, and he was dancing with her. "Look here," he began abruptly, "who are you, anyway?"
"Don't you read the papers?"
Jock would have reason to remember this reply in future, but at the time he judged it to be only a part of her line. "Tell me," he begged.
"My name is Yvonne Mountford. And yours is Jock Hamill, isn't it?"
"Yes, how did you know?"
He could not hear her laugh, but he could feel it—a swift exhalation of breath against his neck. "I came to this dance with Toby Jennings," she explained, "and on the way out from New York he said, 'There'll be a man here you'll like. Jock Hamill.' I said, 'Why will I like him?' and Toby said, 'Because all women do.' The minute I saw you I knew you must be the one."
If this had been intended to flatter Jock, it missed fire. He said nothing, and presently Yvonne allowed her head to droop backward so she could look up at him quizzically. "You hate that, don't you," she observed. "I'm glad you hate it. Toby said that men liked you too—does that make you feel any better?"
"Much," Jock told her truthfully. "Fellows that women like and other fellows don't are always—well, I wouldn't want to think I was one of them. You dance," he added, "just the way you look."
"And that is?"
At this point they were interrupted by a person who whacked Jock upon the back and gathered Yvonne into his arms in one determined swoop.
Jock repaired to the wall and fumed there through an impatient interval. Then he cut in again. "You're invited to a football game."
