rville was
a different sort of fat man; pink-cheeked, springy, immaculate.

At four o'clock, as she was in the chorus of "Isn't There Another Joan
of Arc?" a melting masculine voice from the other side of the counter
said "Pardon me. What's that you're playing?"

Terry told him. She did not look up. "I wouldn't have known it.
Played like that--a second 'Marseillaise.' If the words----What are
the words? Let me see a----"

"Show the gentleman a 'Joan,'" Terry commanded briefly, over her
shoulder. The fat man laughed a wheezy laugh. Terry glanced around,
still playing, and encountered the gaze of two melting masculine eyes
that matched the melting masculine voice. The songster waved a hand
uniting Terry and the eyes in informal introduction.

"Mr. Leon Sammett, the gentleman who sings the Gottschalk songs
wherever songs are heard. And Mrs.--that is--and Mrs. Sammett----"

Terry turned. A sleek, swarthy world-old young man with the
fashionable concave torso, and alarmingly convex bone-rimmed glasses.
Through them his darkly luminous gaze glowed upon Terry. To escape
their warmth she sent her own gaze past him to encounter the arctic
stare of the large blonde who had been included so lamely in the
introduction. And at that the frigidity of that stare softened,
melted, dissolved.

"Why, Terry Sheehan! What in the world!"

Terry's eyes bored beneath the layers of flabby fat. "It's--why, it's
Ruby Watson, isn't it? Eccentric Song and Dance----"

She glanced at the concave young man and faltered. He was not Jim, of
the Bijou days. From him her eyes leaped back to the fur-bedecked
splendor of the woman. The plump face went so painfully red that the
make-up stood out on it, a distinct layer, like thin ice covering
flowing water. As she surveyed that bulk Terry realized that while
Ruby might still claim eccentricity, her song-and-dance days were over.
"That's ancient history, m' dear. I haven't been working for three
years. What're you doing in this joint? I'd heard you'd done well for
yourself. That you were married."

"I am. That is I--well, I am. I----"

At that the dark young man leaned over and patted Terry's hand that lay
on the counter. He smiled. His own hand was incredibly slender, long,
and tapering.

"That's all right," he assured her, and smiled. "You two girls can
have a reunion later. What I want to know is can you play by ear?"

"Yes, but----"

He leaned far over the coun