"I daresay you’ve seen me often," she agreed. "I’m in the front row at the Pall Mall Theater—black chiffon over pink. Then I’m somebody’s boot polish in the advertisements—my photograph, you know—cleaning my own shoes without dirtying my frock. And I’m somebody else’s motorcoats, and nearly everybody’s mouth-wash and cigarettes." Chalfont laughed. "By Jove! Do you know, I’ve always wondered who they got to sit for those advertisements. How’s it arranged? Do you mind telling me?" "Not at all. Sometimes the people—cigarettes or motorcoats, you know—write and ask you to come and pose for them at their shops; but generally it’s done through a photographer. He gets paid for taking the photos, and you get a little cheque and a lot of advertisement. When it’s for a mouth-wash you have to put on a broad grin and show your teeth. It’s awfully tiring sometimes. For a hair-restorer you wear your hair down, and if you haven’t much they fluff it out with a long switch so as to make people believe in the stuff." "You’re not tempted to use it, I suppose?" "Rather not! I’ve got too much hair as it is. It won’t even fall out in the autumn and spring." "How about the cigarettes?" "Oh, I daresay they’re all right, though I don’t suppose you’d want to smoke them." "Just what I thought. Personally, I never buy anything that’s advertised if I can help it. When I have it I invariably have a feeling that I’m being taken in." "I think it’s the women more than the men who are taken in," said Maggy thoughtfully. "Women believe anything they see in the papers. I used to once." "But not now?" She shook her head. "You get to know a lot about make-believe when you’re on the stage." "I suppose you do. How is it I’ve never met you here before?" "I’m Lexie’s friend. I mean Miss Hersey. Excuse my bad habit of speaking of people by their Christian names. I know it’s not right. I don’t, myself, like to hear women call their husbands ’Daddy’ or ’Father’ before strangers. It always sounds to me as if they wanted you to consider yourself one of the family." "But you know Mrs. Lambert, don’t you?" "Hardly. I met her with Lexie in a shop the other day and she asked me to lunch. So here I am. Have I come too early?" "On the contrary. I’m very glad you’re here, relieving my solitude." "I was afraid I was boring you. I can only talk rubbish. I can’t help it. You see, I don’t know anything about the things that sensible people talk about. Pictures and books and politics." "I think you do yourself an injustice. Please don’t imagine I say it out of compliment, but it’s evident you are full of ideas, jolly interesting ones, too."