Alice sat down again and bent forward and caught up Joan's
unoccupied hand. "Listen, dear," she said with more than
characteristic earnestness. "Last night I went with the Merrills to
the Ziegfeld Follies, and I saw Martin there with a little white-
faced girl with red lips and the golden hair that comes out of a
bottle."

"Good old Martin!" said Joan. "The devil you did!"

"Doesn't that give you a jar?"

"Good heavens, no! If you'd peeked into the One-o'clock Club this
morning at half past two, you would have seen me with a white-faced
man with a red mustache and a kink in his hair that comes from a hot
iron. Martin and I are young and giddy, and we're on the round-
about, and we're hitting it up. Who cares?"

There was a little silence--and then Alice drew back, shaking her
pretty neat head. "It won't do, Joany," she said, "it won't do. I've
heard you say 'Who cares?' loads of times and never seen anybody
take you by the shoulders and shake you into caring. That's why you
go on saying it. But somebody always cares, Joany dear, and there's
not one thing that any of us can say or do that doesn't react on
some one else, either to hurt or bless. Martin Gray's your knight.
You said so. Don't you be the one to turn his gleaming armor into
common broadcloth--please, please don't."

Joan gave a little laugh and a little yawn and stretched herself
like a boy and got up. "Who'd have thought it? It's half-past