of the yacht. The close cabin emptied slowly of heat; heat ebbed steadily away now that the light was off, and in it was no sound save that of their breathing. No other sound at all. “I hope that was the last one, the one I killed,” Jenny murmured.
“God, yes,” the niece agreed. “This party is wearing enough with just people on it. . . . Say, how’d you like to be on a party with a boatful of Mr. Talliaferros?”
“Which one is he?”
“Why, don’t you remember him? You sure ought to. He’s that funny talking little man that puts his hands on you—that dreadful polite one. I don’t see how you could forget a man as polite as him.”
“Oh, yes,” said Jenny, remembering, and the other said:
“Say, Jenny, how about Pete?”
Jenny became utterly still for a moment. Then she said innocently: “What about him?”
“He’s mad at you about Mr. Talliaferro, isn’t he?”
“Pete’s all right, I guess.”
“You keep yourself all cluttered up with men, don’t you?” the other asked curiously.
“Well, you got to do something,” Jenny defended herself.
“Bunk,” the niece said roughly, “bunk. You like petting. That’s the reason. Don’t you?”
“Well, I don’t mind,” Jenny answered. “I’ve kind of got used to it,” she explained. The niece expelled her breath in a thin snorting sound and Jenny repeated: “You’ve got to do something, haven’t you?”
“Oh, sweet attar of bunk,” the niece said. In the darkness she made a gesture of disgust. “You women! That’s the way Dorothy Jameson thinks about it too, I bet. You better look out: I think she’s trying to take Peter away from you.”
“Oh, Pete’s all right,” Jenny repeated placidly. She lay
