mble house in which she had found a large
two-bedded room. Her cigarettes were Egyptian now and on the train she
had bought half a dozen new novels at which she looked with pride.
Hitherto she had been obliged to read only those much-handled
blase-looking books which went the round of the chorus. Conceive what
that meant! Also she had brought with her a bottle of the scent that
was only, so far as she knew, within reach of leading ladies. Like the
cigarettes and the books, this was really for Tootles to use, but she
borrowed a little from time to time.

As for Irene Stanton, then, she was having, and said so, the time of
her young life. She richly deserved it, and if her kindness and
thoughtfulness, patience and sympathy had not been entered in the big
volume of the Recording Angel that everlasting young woman must have
neglected her pleasant job for several weeks.

And, as for Tootles, it is true that her bobbed hair still owed its
golden brilliance to a bottle, but the white stuff on her face had been
replaced by sunburn, and her lips were red all by themselves.

She was watching the last of the great red globe when her friend joined
her. There had been a race of sloops that afternoon, and there was
unusual animation on the quay and at the little club house. A small
power boat, on which were the starter and judges and others, had just
put in with a good deal of splutter and fuss. On the stoop of the club
a small band was playing, and a bevy of young people were dancing.
Following in the wake of the last sloop a yawl with a dingey in tow was
coming towards the quay.

Seeing that Tootles was in one of her ecstatic moods and was deaf to
remarks, Irene saved her words to cool her porridge and watched the
incoming yawl. She did so at first without much interest. It was merely
a sailboat to her city eyes, and her good lines and good management
meant nothing. But as she came nearer something familiar in the cut of
the man at her helm caught her attention. Surely those broad shoulders
and that deep chest and small head could belong only to Martin Gray?
They did, they did. It was that boy at last, that boy about whom
Tootles had gone dippy, that boy whose generosity had made their
holiday possible, that boy the first sight of whom would put the last
touch to Tootles' recovery--that boy who, if her friend set her mind
and feminine charm to work, might, it seemed to the practical Irene,
make her future safe. Strap-hangers ha