Isabelle turned to her quietly.

In her eyes was the light of the idealist, the inviolate dreamer of Joan-like dreams.
"No," she answered.

"I don't do that sort of thing any more; he asked me to, but I said no." As she crept in bed she wondered what he'd say in his special delivery to-morrow.

He had such a good-looking mouth--would she ever--?
"Fourteen angels were watching o'er them," sang Sally sleepily from the next room.
"Damn!" muttered Isabelle, punching the pillow into a luxurious lump and exploring the cold sheets cautiously.

"Damn!" ***** CARNIVAL Amory, by way of the Princetonian, had arrived.