thing else in the world almost," she confided. That is what at least three girls had said to him in the last fortnight about going to France. He laughed, pleased.
"Wish we could roll up the rugs and try it!"
"I wish we could too," the stranger agreed, and glanced at him, not a bit worshipfully.
The quality of the glance brought the color to Vincent's face. He was horribly rusty! Too bad! She was a pretty girl—blond—a fragile, destructible-looking creature in a fragile, destructible-looking gown, all feminine lace and spangles. Vincent compared the gown to Barbara's hard, sensible black satin, selected, she had told him with pride, as a patriotic economy.
"But," the girl went on, after her effective pause and glance, "seeing there isn't any dancing, come on down Broadway instead. All the high-spots, in all the best shows in the last ten years are here." She indicated the music in her lap. "Remember this?" she inquired, and passed Vincent a popular sextette which he had encored until his hands tingled, three years ago.
Regardless of time and place, the stranger in the window-seat conducted Vincent through the sparkling thorough-fares of New York, dropping in not only at the various comic-operas, here and there, represented in Barbara's pile, but sampling
