smoothest lines since the building of the Southern Pacific. You
would then have borrowed somebody's flask, gone into the locker
room and gotten an edge--not a bachelor-dinner edge but just
enough to give you the proper amount of confidence. You would
have returned to the ballroom, cut in on this twentieth century
Priscilla, and taken her and your edge out to a convenient
limousine, or the first tee.

It was of some such yellow-haired Priscilla that Homer dreamed
when he smote his lyre and chanted, "I sing of arms and the man";
it was at the sight of such as she that rare Ben Johnson's Dr.
Faustus cried, "Was this the face that launched a thousand
ships?" In all ages has such beauty enchanted the minds of men,
calling forth in one century the Fiesolian terza rima of
"Paradise Lost", in another the passionate arias of a dozen
Beethoven symphonies. In 1620 the pagan daughter of Helen of Troy
and Cleopatra of the Nile happened, by a characteristic jest of
the great Ironist, to embark with her aunt on the
"Mayflower".

Like all girls of eighteen Priscilla had learned to kiss and be
kissed on every possible occasion; in the exotic and not at all
uncommon pleasure of "petting" she had acquired infinite wisdom
and complete disillusionment. But in all her "petting parties" on
the "Mayflower" and in Plymouth she had found no Puritan who held
her interest beyond the first kiss, and she had lately reverted
in sheer boredom to her boarding school habit of drinking gin in
large quantities, a habit which was not entirely approved of by
her old-fashioned aunt, although Mrs. Brewster was glad to have
her niece stay at home in the evenings "instead", as she told