articles out of her bag.

"I'll run through my mail," she told herself. "Then I'll get into
something loose, see to my trunks, have dinner, and turn in early.
Wish Jock were here. We'd have a steak, and some French fried, and a
salad, and I'd let the kid make the dressing, even if he does always
get in too much vinegar--"

She was glancing through her mail. Two from the firm--one from Mary
Cutting--one from the Sure-White Laundry at Dayton (hope they found
that corset-cover)--one from--why, from Jock! From Jock! And he'd
written only two days before. Well!

Sitting there on the edge of the bed she regarded the dear scrawl
lovingly, savoring it, as is the way of a woman. Then she took a
hairpin from the knot of bright hair (also as is the way of woman) and
slit the envelope with a quick, sure rip. M-m-m--it wasn't much as to
length. Just a scrawled page. Emma McChesney's eye plunged into it
hungrily, a smile of anticipation dimpling her lips, lighting up her
face.

"_Dearest Blonde_," it began.

("The nerve of the young imp!")

He hoped the letter would reach her in time. Knew how this weather
mussed up her schedule. He wanted her honest opinion about something--
straight, now! One of the frat fellows was giving a Christmas house-
party. Awful swells, by the way. He was lucky even to be asked. He'd
never remembered a real Christmas--in a home, you know, with a tree,