Michael was not allowed to maintain his attitude of disinterested commentary, for the girl in the daisied hat presently addressed him, and he did not wish to hurt her feelings by not replying. “You’re very silent, kiddie,” she said. “I’ll give you a penny for them.” “I really wasn’t thinking about anything in particular,” said Michael. “Will you have a drink?” “Don’t mind if I do. Alphonse!” she shouted, tugging at the arm of the overloaded waiter who was accomplishing his transit. “Bring me a hot whisky-and-lemon. There’s a love.” Alphonse made the slightest sign of having heard the request and passed on. Michael held his breath while the girl was giving her order. He was expecting every moment that the waiter would break over the alcove in a fountain of glass. “I’ve taken quite a fancy to whisky-and-lemon hot,” she informed Michael. “You know. Anyone does, don’t they? Get a sudden fit and keep on keeping on with one drink, I mean. This’ll be my sixth to-night. But I’m a long way off being drunk, kiddie. Do you like my new hat? I reckon it’ll bring me luck.” “I expect it will,” Michael said. “You are serious, aren’t you? When I first saw you I thought you was the spitting image of a fellow I know—Bert Saunders, who writes about the boxing matches for Crime Illustrated. He’s more of a bright-eyes than you are, though.” The whisky-and-lemon arrived, and she drank Michael’s health. “Funny-tasting stuff when you come to think of it,” she said meditatingly. “What’s your name, kiddie?” He told her. “Michael,” she repeated. “You’re a Jew, then?” He shook his head. “Well, kid, I suppose you know best, but Michael is a Jewish name, isn’t it? Michael? Of course it is. I don’t mind Jew fellows myself. One or two of them have been very good to me. My name’s Daisy Palmer.” The conversation languished slightly, because Michael since his encounter with Poppy at Neptune Crescent was determined to be very cautious. “You look rather French,” was his most audacious sally toward the personal. “Funny you should have said that, because my mother was a stewardess on the Calais boat. She was Belgian herself.” Again the conversation dropped. “I’m waiting for a friend,” Daisy volunteered. “She’s been having a row with her fellow, and she promised to come on down to the Orange and tell me about it. Dolly Wearne is her name. She ought to have been here by now. What’s the time, kid?” It was after midnight, and Daisy began to look round anxiously. “I’m rather worried over Doll,” she confided to Michael, “because this fellow of hers, Hungarian Dave, is a proper little tyke when he turns nasty. I said to Doll, I said to her, ‘Doll, that dirty rotter you’re so soft over’ll swing for you before he’s done. Why don’t you leave him,’ I said, ‘and come and live along with me for a bit?’” “And what did she say?” Michael asked. But there was no answer, for Daisy had caught sight of Dolly herself coming down the stairs, and she was now hailing her excitedly.