pile of music she held in her lap—Barbara's music. Then abruptly, "Did you ever see Julia Sanderson in this?"
Vincent took the proffered sheet.
"See it? Rather!" he said.
"Wasn't it simply great?" she exclaimed, with as much enthusiasm, as Mrs. Thaxter, his dinner-partner had expressed herself to him, a half-an-hour ago, in regard to a late allied success. He believed they had used the very same words.
He sat down beside the stranger. "Great!" he agreed eagerly.
"Ever fox-trot to this?" asked the girl, shoving across to him another sheet of music from Barbara's pile, collected in before-war days when frequent trips to New York were not taboo, and a girl went to as many matinees as her allowance permitted.
"I should say I had!" Vincent ejaculated. He had been a dance-enthusiast once—ages ago—in his former existence. "Did you ever dance to it?"
"Have I!" she apostrophized, with an eloquence that matched his.
"You like to dance?" he asked.
"I love it!" she exclaimed, and she couldn't have spoken more ardently if he had been referring to the flag. "I'd rather dance than do any-
