bitter sky of a Russian spring. We have found each other, their bodies sang together.
"Why are you going away?"
Mrs. Prather danced past them violently, singing at the top of her lungs, waving a glittering hand and shouting, "Hello, Sweetheart!" to Joe. Susette Ricardo drifted by, a black butterfly. Her white hand dripped a lighted cigarette over Bill Salisbury's shoulder; her face, haggard near to, was childish at a distance, framed in short ash-blond hair. Under the painted palm tree Ralph Levinson sat watching.
The music stopped. Joe and Evelyn stood close together, waiting, silent, until it began again and she came into his arms as if she were coming home.
"Evelyn! Joe! We're going!"
"Where do we go from here, boys? It's too late for a show."
"Let's go somewhere and dance."
"The Ritz?"
"Can't; the Joe-person isn't dressed. Let's go to Arcadia. Anything goes there," suggested Mrs. Prather, wrapping herself in ermine. "She ought to be shot for her fur," Susette mocked, half aloud.
"Who told you I was going away, Joe? I can't say Mr. Green; it's so long and so hard to pronounce," Evelyn said as they waited, shivering, for taxis.
"Mrs. Ricardo."
"She told you other things, too. Poor Susette, she doesn't care what she says or does to-night. She's ter-
