"Why ?" "You've never sat in that chair until this minute and this chicken was probably killed this morning.

But I've seen you sitting in just that attitude at that table and cut the wing of this very bird and watched that identical smile round your lips when I put the plate in front of you." He put it in front of her and the scent of her hair made him catch his breath.

"Oh, my God!" he said to himself.

"This girl--this beautiful, cool, bewitching thing--the dew of youth upon her, as chaste as unsunned snow--Oh, my God...." But Joan had caught the scent of honeysuckle, and back into her brain came that cottage splashed with sun, the lithe figure of Harry Oldershaw with his face tanned the color of mahogany and the clear voice of "Mrs.Gray." Gilbert filled her glass with champagne cup, carved for himself and sat at the foot of the table.

"The man from whom I bought this place," he said, saying anything to make conversation and keep himself rig idly light and, as he hoped, like Oldershaw, "owns a huge ready-made clothes store on Broadway--appalling things with comic belts and weird pockets." "Oh!" said Joan.