sounds familiar," she mused, "but I can't think—well, what does she look like?"
"Red hair," said Jock succinctly.
"Oh."
Jock got up, with a conclusive air of having disposed of the topic to everyone's satisfaction, and began to pack the silver-lettered bowl of his pipe with tobacco. "Now!" he said. "How 'bout my allowance for this year?"
She mentioned a generous sum. Sums in that household were always generous, "That's the berries," approved Jock, "but can you afford it?"
"I think so."
"It's a lot of money."
"I have a lot of money, Jock," said Mrs. Hamill. "More than I can spend by myself."
Jock knew that this was so. Had you asked him where the money came from he would doubtless have said, "Oil, or something," rather vaguely; but that it did come, in large quantities, he was well aware. His understanding was that investments made by his father years ago had since proved unexpectedly prosperous, putting his mother and himself on easy street. Beyond a certain gratitude and a fleeting mental tribute to his father's business acumen, he gave the matter no thought whatever.
Yvonne was not again mentioned in the conversation. But when Mrs. Hamill had gone to her own room and was seated before her dressing table, gazing at her reflection over a corps of assorted bottles and jars, she repeated the name over. "Yvonne Mountford. Now where have I heard that before?" Bye and bye she sighed, "Poor Molly!"
Mrs. Hamill had more than the usual maternal conviction that if she were younger, and if Jock were not
