said, and they were shrewd enough never to become serious or sentimental for more than five minutes at a stretch. They were the ones you always liked; the ones who mattered.
Jock had believed these six divisions sufficiently comprehensive to include all the girls in the world—until he met Yvonne. She gloriously defied any classification whatever.
He wrote her on Monday, reminding her of the game. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday passed with no word from her, and he took to haunting the University postal station like a restless wraith.
Friday noon, on his way there, he encountered Bradley Hathaway.
"Where you bound, Jock?"
"Post office, where you?"
"Home to lunch," Brad said, "but I'll go along with you first. I've hardly clapped eyes on you since the night you blew in. Where've you been keeping yourself?"
"I've been pretty busy, Brad," Jock equivocated. (How tell a man you haven't gone to see him because you cannot bear his wife?)
"I suppose so, but you might find a minute to run over now and then. We're always glad to have you, you know."
"Yes, I know, Brad. I will."
They sauntered along, talking football. Brad was dubious as to the outcome of the morrow's game. "'Fraid it's going to be bad news. This other team's too good to take on so early in the season."
Jock found two letters in his mailbox. One was from Molly. The other he knew at a glance must be Yvonne's—a huge gray envelope addressed in swooping script, most individual.
