when she saw a shopgirl caress the hand of a slouching beau in
threadbare brown, her own hand slipped into Milt's and clung there.

But they came shyly up to the Gilson hedge, and when Milt chuckled,
"Bully walk; let's do it again," she said only, "Oh, yes, I did like it.
Very much."

He had abruptly dropped his beautiful new felt hat. He was clutching her
arms, demanding, "Can you like me? Oh my God, Claire, I can't play at
love. I'm mad--I just live in you. You're my blood and soul. Can I
become--the kind of man you like?"

"My dear!" She was fiercely addressing not him alone but the Betzes and
Coreys and Gilsons and Jeff Saxtons, "don't you forget for one moment
that all these people--here or Brooklyn either--that seem so aloof and
amused, are secretly just plain people with enamel on, and you're to
have the very best enamel, if it's worth while. I'm not sure that it
is----"

"You're going to kiss me!"

"No! Please no! I don't--I don't understand us, even now. Can't we be
just playmates a while yet? But--I do like you!"

She fled. When she reached the hall she found her eyelids wet.

It was the next afternoon----

Claire was curled on the embroidered linen counterpane of her bed,
thinking about chocolates and Brooklyn and driving through Yellowstone
Park and corn fritters and satin petticoats versus _crepe de chine_ and
Mount Rainier and Milt and spiritualism and manicuring, when Mrs. Gilson
prowled into her room and demanded "Busy?" so casually that Claire was
suspicious.

"No. Not very. Something up?"

"A nice party. Come down and meet an amusing man from Alaska."

Claire took her time powdering her nose, and ambled downstairs and into
the drawing-room, to find----

Jeff Saxton, Mr. Geoffrey Saxton, who is the height of Brooklyn Heights,
standing by the fireplace, smiling at her.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE ENEMY LOVE

But at second glance--was it Jeff? This man was tanned to a thick even
brown in which his eyes were startlingly white. His hands were burned
red; there was a scar across one of them; and he was standing with them
cockily at his hips, all unlike the sleekly, noisily quiet Jeff of
Brooklyn. He was in corduroy trousers and belted corduroy jacket, with a
khaki-colored flannel shirt.

But his tranquilly commanding smile was Jeff's, and his lean grace; and
Jeff's familiar amused voice greeted her paralyzed amazement with:

"Hello, pard! Ain't I met you some place in Montana?"

"Well-