She was a nice girl, and Punch didn’t think she’d make the opening remark which some of the others, earlier in the day, had devastated him with, “Won’t you miss Judy horribly when she’s married?” His confidence was justified. She didn’t. She talked about sensible things: swimming strokes, and how it felt the first time you tried a high dive; the probable delights of owning a motorcycle, and so on. Eventually they got around to talking about the pleasures of not traveling in Europe and the advantages of being an American. When they heard the music stop, he said, with real regret, “I suppose if you’re promised for the next dance I’d better take you back.” After a ripple of applause they heard the dance go on again, but now they were strolling back toward the house. “I envy Judy,” she said suddenly. “I wish I had a nice young brother of my own.” “If you did,” Punch blurted out, “you’d probably just go and get married.” She withdrew her hand from his arm, where it had rested quite comfortably all the while. He needed both his hands just then, for his eyes were threatening him with disaster. She put her arm across his shoulders and for a moment held him tight. Then she let him go, and walked on. “It’s funny how black the shadows are in the moonlight,” she said. “You can’t see a thing. Do you know yet where you’re going to college?” She _was_ a nice girl. They came up into the veranda just as the dance was coming to an end--really this time. The man she had left was waiting there to claim her, and Punch turned for a look at Judy. He had an idea that he might sit out the next dance with her. She happened, just then, to be alone. A moment earlier, Punch was sure, a man had been standing before her, bending over. Now he was gone, and Judy was holding something in her hand. A letter, or what looked like it. Not just a scrap of a note, for when she tried to fold it small it offered some resistance. This movement seemed half frightened, although this didn’t exactly describe the look that was in her face. She started to tuck the thing down inside her dress, suddenly desisted and, with an exasperated laugh, snatched it out again. She glanced around, helplessly at a loss. Then her hand darted out to a narrow-necked Chinese vase which stood on the table beside her, and she pushed her letter down inside. It wouldn’t be very easy to get out again, Punch reflected, for the hastily folded paper would spring apart. The next moment Bruce Applebury came out through the open French window from the drawing-room and sat down beside her. “Just on the minute,” she remarked to him. “Like a man in a play.” Punch stood rooted where he was. He wouldn’t have gone to her even if Bruce Applebury hadn’t come out. The fog of trouble which the nice bridesmaid had for the while dissipated stole again over his spirit.