Yvonne disregarded the question. "The only kick I get out of life any more," she said, "is driving seventy miles an hour. You love it, too, don't you?" Then, as Jock nodded, "You would, of course. You're like me. Mad. All the people worth knowing are a little mad."
She thrust a hand down the front of her gown and brought forth a powder puff and an eyebrow pencil wrapped in a scented handkerchief.
"Now don't do that!" Jock commanded quickly.
"Don't do what?"
"Don't make up when someone is looking. Other girls can if they want to, but you ought not to, ever. It spoils the illusion."
"I'm not going to make up, silly! I'm going to give you my address."
She wrote it with the eyebrow pencil on Jock's cuff, well up, so that the sleeve of his coat covered it. "That's for you, remember. Not solely for the benefit of some Chinese laundryman."
"Tomorrow," said Jock, "I'm going back to college. I'll stop in New York on my way through and take you to lunch—if I may."
She said that he might.
Retrospection is here necessary:
Jock Hamill had been born on a February night in the second year of the twentieth century. He was extremely deliberate and troublesome about it, and succeeded in so terrifying his mother that he became not only the first child she ever had, but the last. His early
