"It's a funny old world," remarked Gladys Norman that evening, as she and Thompson sat at a sheltered table in a little Soho restaurant. "It's a jolly nice old world," remarked Thompson, looking up from his plate, "and this chicken is it." "Chicken first; Gladys Norman also ran," she remarked scathingly. Thompson grinned and returned to his plate. "Why do you like the Chief, Tommy?" she demanded. Thompson paused in his eating, resting his hands, still holding knife and fork, upon the edge of the table. The suddenness of the question had startled him. "If you must sit like that, at least close your mouth," she said severely. Thompson replaced his knife and fork upon the plate. "Well, why _do_ you?" she queried. "Why do I what?" he asked. She made a movement of impatience. "Like the Chief, of course." Then as he did not reply she continued: "Why does Tims like him, and the Innocent, and Sir James, and Sir John Dene, and the whole blessed lot of us? Why is it, Tommy, why?" Thompson merely gaped, as if she had propounded some unanswerable riddle. "Why is it?" she repeated. Then as he still remained silent she added, "There's no hurry, Tommy dear; just go on listening with your mouth. I quite realise the compliment." "I'm blessed if I know," he burst out at last. "I suppose it's because he's 'M.S.,'" and he returned to his plate. "Yes, but _why_ is it?" she persisted, as she continued mechanically to crumble her bread. "That's what _I_ want to know; why is it?" Thompson looked at her a little anxiously. By nature he was inclined to take things for granted, things outside his profession that is. "It's a funny old world, Tommikins," she repeated at length, picking up her knife and fork, "funnier for some than for others." Thompson looked up with a puzzled expression on his face. There were times when he found Gladys Norman difficult to understand. "For a girl, I mean," she added, as if that explained it. Thompson still stared. The remark did not strike him as illuminating. "It may be," she continued meditatively, "that I like doing things for the Chief because he was my haven of refuge from a wicked world; but that doesn't explain why you and Tims----" "Your haven of refuge!" repeated Thompson, making a gulp of a mouthful, and once more laying down his knife and fork, as he looked across at her curiously. "Before I went to the Ministry I had one or two rather beastly experiences." She paused as if mentally reviewing some unpleasant incident. "Tell me, Gladys." Thompson was now all attention. "Well, I once went to see a man in Shaftesbury Avenue who had advertised for a secretary. He was a funny old bean," she added reminiscently, "all eyes and no waist, and more curious as to whether I lived alone, or with my people, than about my speeds. So I told him my brother was a prize-fighter, and----" "But you haven't got a brother," broke in Thompson.