"Hang the drapes!" Marc said forcibly and, taking a hitch in his gaping pajamas, strode into the bathroom ... and locked the door. * * * * * Driving, particularly toward the center of the city, had lately become hazardous; the motorist never knew what insanity awaited him just around the next corner. At an intersection Marc stopped the car before a group of white-haired, bonneted old ladies who were gleefully engrossed in a game of croquet that had something to do with knocking your opponent's ball into an open manhole. At the sound of Marc's horn one of the aged gamesters glanced around demurely and peered at him through silver-rimmed glasses. "Can it, you creep," she shrilled. "You wanna louse my shot?" She might have said more except that her attention was suddenly drawn to the manhole, where the grimy head of a workman rose slowly like a soiled and rather timid moon. Lifting her skirts delicately so that only the minimum of ankle was exposed the lady minced daintily forward and belted the head a stunning blow with her mallet. Without a murmur the head retreated once more into the deeps of the city sewage system. "Danged whelp keeps poppin' up and spoilin' our innocent fun," the old lady said sullenly. "Does it just to aggravate us." She turned to one of her companions. "Shag me the bottle, Lana." The lady in question produced a bottle of bourbon from the folds of her skirt. "Right-o, Rita," she said. "Blood in your eye!" Marc shook his head sadly, but Toffee, huddled beside him in one of his topcoats, saw a certain charm in the sketch. "Personally," she said, "I like to see folks growing old disgracefully. It makes the inevitability of age more attractive. After a lifetime of perfecting sins and vices you ought to be able to take them with you at least as far as the grave." Passing by this bit of lopsided philosophy, Marc wheeled the car onto the sidewalk and skirted the field of play. "The whole world's gone mad," he murmured. It was a block later, at the sight of the Empire Department Store, that Toffee instructed Marc to stop the car. "I want to pick up a few fine feathers," she explained. "I may want to take a flier later on." "You won't need clothes," Marc informed her. "The office is most informal these days, especially since the staff has left." "If I'm going to languish," Toffee said, "I'm going to do it in silks and satins. Besides, if you don't stop I'll darned well cripple you with my jewelry." Marc pulled the car to the curb without further discussion. * * * * *