qua non of the ultra-moderns! The Zeta Kappa living room whizzed with it. The atmosphere was hectic with it. Every damsel strove to prove at once, then and there, that she had it—that she had more of it than any other damsel. You should have seen Norma Knight gulping straight Scotch from a bottle. You should have seen the celebrated Winky Winters, promtrotter extraordinary, seated atop the piano, beating time on its mahogany with her sharp small heels. You should have seen Gloria Martin, minister's daughter, doing an imitation of Ted Lewis with somebody's derby hat. You should have seen Molly kissing each new man as she met him, saying, "Eventually—why not now?"
Pep! Something a little different, a little conspicuous, a little rowdy, and extremely loud—pep!
Through it all, Cecily Graves sat in a great armchair pushed to one side. She seemed literally to be clinging there, as one would cling to a small safe isle in a mad and treacherous sea. She was quite alone. Even Dopey had left her, drawn to the other side of the room by the irresistible pull of something-going-on. She sat speechless and motionless—that is, motionless except for her eyes, which darted here and there and everywhere excitedly. "She isn't missing a trick," Jock told himself.
After a time, meeting her glance over the top of Molly's head, he winked at her in a friendly way. Her reaction was immediate and pathetic. She seemed to shrink even further into the depths of the great chair; and then, an instant later, she smiled. Tremulously. Gratefully. With a look in her eyes like the eyes of a dog when you pat him.
This was quite too much for Jock. He abandoned Molly in the middle of the floor and went across to
