"You'ah terribly deah to do this, Jock. I know you don't really want to at all."
"Of course I want to!" Jock lied gallantly. "What could be sweeter than escorting the prettiest girl in town to a football game?"
There was almost a licking of the lips about the way in which Eunice received compliments, a hint of insatiable greed. She would laugh, but it was poor pretense. She laughed now. "Jock, you mustn't spoof an old married lady!"
They were standing in the hallway of the Hathaway's bungalow, Jock with a light topcoat flung over his arm and his hat in his hand, Eunice so close to him that he could catch the fragrance of her black bobbed hair. She patted the topcoat. "Where's yoah raccoon?" she asked.
"In mothballs. First of October's too warm for fur coats."
"Oh," wailed Eunice. "And Ive got a new one—Brad just bought it for me—and I wanted to weah it so badly! Is it really much too wahm out today? Would I die, do you reckon? Wait, I want to show it to you."
She sped away, and returned after a moment bearing a long garment of mink. Jock held it while she slipped into it, giving him meanwhile that arch backward glance such women always give under such circumstances. She held the coat tight around her as a blanket is held 'round a baby and walked to a little distance, where she stood revolving and posturing, model-fashion. "Do you like it?" she asked.
"It's beautiful," said Jock soberly. It was beauti-
