'Will you do me a favour?' she coaxed. 'What is it?' he said. 'Oh! No! You must promise.' 'Of course, if I can.' 'Well, you can. I want to know what your next book's about. I won't breathe a word to a soul. But I would like you to tell me. I would like to feel that it was you that had told me. You can't imagine how keen I am.' 'Ask me a little later,' he said. 'Will you?' 'To-night?' She put her head on one side. And he replied audaciously: 'Yes.' 'Very well,' she agreed. 'And I shan't forget. I shall hold you to your promise.' Just then two men passed the table, and one of them caught Geraldine's eye, and Geraldine bowed. 'Well, Mr. Doxey,' she exclaimed. 'What ages since I saw you!' 'Yes, isn't it?' said Mr. Doxey. They shook hands and talked a moment. 'Let me introduce you to Mr. Henry Knight,' said Geraldine. 'Mr. Knight--Mr. Doxey, of the P.A.' '_Love in Babylon?_' murmured Mr. Doxey inquiringly. 'Very pleased to meet you, sir.' Henry was not favourably impressed by Mr. Doxey's personal appearance, which was attenuated and riggish. He wondered what 'P.A.' meant. Not till later in the evening did he learn that it stood for Press Association, and had no connection with Pleasant Sunday Afternoons. Mr. Doxey stated that he was going on to the Alhambra to 'do' the celebrated Toscato, the inventor of the new vanishing trick, who made his first public appearance in England at nine forty-five that night. 'You didn't mind my introducing him to you? He's a decent little man in some ways,' said Geraldine humbly, when they were alone again. 'Oh, of course not!' Henry assured her. 'By the way, what would you like to do to-night?' 'I don't know,' she said. 'It's awfully late, isn't it? Time flies so when you're interested.' 'It's a quarter to nine. What about the Alhambra?' he suggested. (He who had never been inside a theatre, not to mention a music-hall!) 'Oh!' she burst out. 'I adore the Alhambra. What an instinct you have! I was just hoping you'd say the Alhambra!' They had Turkish coffee. He succeeded very well in pretending that he had been thoroughly accustomed all his life to the spectacle of women smoking--that, indeed, he was rather discomposed than otherwise when they did not smoke. He paid the bill, and the waiter brought him half a crown concealed on a plate in the folds of the receipt; it was the change out of a five-pound note. Being in a hansom with her, though only for two minutes, surpassed even the rapture of the restaurant. It was the quintessence of Life. CHAPTER XVII A NOVELIST IN A BOX