ou'd peeked into the One-o'clock Club this
morning at half past two, you would have seen me with a white-faced man
with a red mustache and a kink in his hair that comes from a hot iron.
Martin and I are young and giddy, and we're on the round-about, and
we're hitting it up. Who cares?"

There was a little silence--and then Alice drew back, shaking her
pretty neat head. "It won't do, Joany," she said, "it won't do. I've
heard you say 'Who cares?' loads of times and never seen anybody take
you by the shoulders and shake you into caring. That's why you go on
saying it. But somebody always cares, Joany dear, and there's not one
thing that any of us can say or do that doesn't react on some one else,
either to hurt or bless. Martin Gray's your knight. You said so. Don't
you be the one to turn his gleaming armor into common
broadcloth--please, please don't."

Joan gave a little laugh and a little yawn and stretched herself like a
boy and got up. "Who'd have thought it? It's half-past twelve, and
we're both losing our much needed beauty sleep. I must really tear
myself away." She put her arm around Alice and kissed her. "The same
dear little wise, responsible Alice who would like to put the earth
into woolens with a mustard plaster on its chest. But it takes all
sorts to make up a world, you know, and it would be rather drab without
a few butterflies. Don't throw bricks at me until I've fluttered a bit
more, Ally. My colors won't last long, and I know what old age means,
better than most. If I were in love as you are, my man's rules would be
the ones I'd go by all the time; but I'm not in love, and I don't want
to be--yet; and I'm only a kid, and I think I have the right to my
fling. This marriage of mine is just a part of the adventure that
Martin and I plunged into as a great joke, and he knows it and he's one
of the best, and I'm grateful to him, believe me. Good night. God bless
you!"

She stood for a moment on the top step to taste the air that was filled
with the essence of youth. Across a sky as clear as crystal a series of
young clouds were chasing each other, putting out the stars for a
moment as they scurried playfully along. It was a joy to be alive and
fit and careless. Summer was lying in wait for spring, and autumn would
lay a withering hand upon summer, and winter with its crooked limbs and
lack-luster eyes was waiting its inevitable turn.

"A short life and a merry one!" whispered Joan to the moon, throwing