He bowed slightly, tried to think of a casual remark.

"Do you suppose," she began quickly, "I mean--do you know anything
about gum?"

"What?" "I've got gum on my shoe. Some utter ass left his or her gum
on the floor and of course I stepped in it."

Jim blushed, inappropriately.

"Do you know how to get it off?" she demanded petulantly. "I've tried
a knife. I've tried every damn thing in the dressing-room. I've tried
soap and water--and even perfume and I've ruined my powder-puff trying
to make it stick to that."

Jim considered the question in some agitation.

"Why--I think maybe gasolene--"

The words had scarcely left his lips when she grasped his hand and
pulled him at a run off the low veranda, over a flower bed and at a
gallop toward a group of cars parked in the moonlight by the first
hole of the golf course.

"Turn on the gasolene," she commanded breathlessly.

"What?"

"For the gum of course. I've got to get it off. I can't dance with gum
on."