The fringes flustered; the dark eyes drooped. “Why, I—I never—thought of that!” Félicie admitted. “But”—she brightened—“this is a furnished apartment, mostly, and the rugs are the old landlord’s. So it’s quite all right after all!” “Does ‘the old landlord’ know you keep a dog?” “Well—but you would hardly call Fizz a dog, now, would you?” she triumphed. “Come on in my room while I put on some clothes. She pulled off and carefully hung up the kitchen apron which had been protecting her somewhat gossamer attire from the wear and tear attendant on canine ablutions, and ran before them to a speckless white boudoir that had the air of not having quite recovered from its last cleaning. In spite of Félicie’s activities, that was also the way the kitchen had looked. Jerry’s apartment always appeared to be waiting for its next cleaning. “I have a new picture of Greg,” said Félicie, disappearing into a closet. “There on the dressing table.” A large photograph of a man with sleek, dark hair parted in the middle and watered back; a face whose good looking conformity could have been singled out as “a college type” —framed in ivory which carried out the scheme of the dressing table’s dainty appurtenances. “It’s good,” said Jerry. “Still in love with him?” A muffled but none the less sure-fire assent came from the closet. She evidently was the kind of girl who dressed in the closet if there were other girls in the room. “Then why the devil won’t you marry him?” Jerry exploded, slamming the picture down with a force that made the ivory manicure set start shimmying. She turned to Joy. “Félicie’s in love with Greg; he’s crazy as a fool about her; and she won’t even get engaged, much less marry him!” “Now, Jerry, you know perfectly well you wouldn’t either,” said Félicie, and again her voice trailed silver, as she came out of the closet. “Oh, you pretty—pretty—_Thing_!” thought Joy. A white gown of foaming lace swirled about her, from which the darkness of her eyes and hair and the redness of her lips gleamed. Her figure now was unexpectedly rounded and full, proportioned so beautifully that the breath-taking entirely of the vision inspired Joy to classic simile. As she buttoned herself into her dress, she looked as Venus rising from the foam would have done well to look. “I’m twenty years old,” Félicie was continuing; “and for a girl at my age to marry would be _sacrifice_, _human sacrifice_. If girls marry nowadays at twenty, they’re either afraid they’ve got their only chance, or they haven’t the cash to hold out, or they’re just plain fools. And you know, Jerry, I’m not any one of those.” “Go on,” said Jerry. “Joy’ll be interested to hear your theories.” Félicie appealed to Joy. “Don’t you think so, too?” Her loveliness stirred none of the animosity in Joy that pretty women too often arouse in one another. Joy smiled back at her. “Don’t you think each case is different?”