Her eyes were sparkling, and that little dimple on her chin which had so excited Sam’s admiration when seen in photographic reproduction had become a large dimple. Sam tickled her sense of humour. He appealed to her in precisely the same way as the dog Amy had appealed to her in the garden that morning. “I don’t see why,” said Sam. “There’s nothing funny about it. It’s monstrous that you should be going about at the mercy of every bounder who takes it into his head to insult you. The idea of a fellow with marcelled hair having the crust to----” He paused. He simply could not mention that awful word again. “----kiss me?” said Kay. “Well, you did.” “That,” said Sam with dignity, “was different. That was--er--well, in short, different. The fact remains that you need somebody to look after you, to protect you.” “And you chivalrously offer to do it? I call that awfully nice of you, but--well, don’t you think it’s rather absurd?” “I see nothing absurd in it at all.” “How many times have you seen me in your life?” “Thousands!” “What? Oh, I was forgetting the photograph. But do photographs really count?” “Yes.” “Mine can’t have counted much, if the first thing you did was to tell your friend Cordelia Blair about it and say she might use it as a story.” “I didn’t. I only said that at dinner to--to introduce the subject. As if I would have dreamed of talking about you to anybody! And she isn’t a friend of mine.” “But you kissed her.” “I did not kiss her.” “My uncle insists that you did. He says he heard horrible sounds of Bohemian revelry going on in the outer office and then you came in and said the lady was soothed.” “Your uncle talks too much,” said Sam severely. “Just what I was thinking a little while ago. But still, if he tells you my secrets, it’s only fair that he should tell me yours.” Sam swallowed somewhat convulsively. “If you really want to know what happened, I’ll tell you. I did not kiss that ghastly Blair pipsqueak. She kissed me.” “What?” “She kissed me,” repeated Sam doggedly. “I had been laying it on pretty thick about how much I admired her work, and suddenly she said, ‘Oh, you dear boy!’ and flung her loathsome arms round my neck. What could I do? I might have uppercut her as she bored in, but, short of that, there wasn’t any way of stopping her.” A look of shocked sympathy came into Kay’s face. “It’s monstrous,” she said, “that you should be going about at the mercy of every female novelist who takes it into her head to insult you. You need somebody to look after you, to protect you----” Sam’s dignity, never a very durable article, collapsed. “You’re quite right,” he said. “Well then----” Kay shook her head. “No, I’m not going to volunteer. Whatever your friend Cordelia Blair may say in her stories, girls don’t marry men they’ve only seen twice in their lives.” “This is the fourth time you’ve seen me.” “Or even four times.”