She was forcing herself to smile now, doing her best to break down the barrier which her fright had erected between them. "You never know when real talent--great talent, even--will leap right out at you. You didn't get in to see Miss Lathrup simply because--well, she actually is tied up three-fourths of the time. She'd refuse to see the President of the United States if he called at the wrong time." It was difficult for her to speak of Lathrup as if the slain woman were still sitting before her desk in an interview-considering frame of mind. It was hard to keep the ghastly memory from coming back and overwhelming her again--the terrible look of fear on the sightlessly staring face, the slumped shoulders, the red stain on the floor by the desk. But apparently he knew nothing and breaking the news to him abruptly would have been no help at all in putting him at his ease. The waitress had snapped her order pad open, and was just starting toward the table to find out why Lynn had failed to catch her eye or indicate with an impatient gesture that she was waiting to be served. Lynn shook her head, and the girl took the cue, scowling slightly and returning to the counter with her eyes trained in curiosity on the table's other occupant. Having seen him enter the restaurant and sit down uninvited opposite Lynn, she could hardly have failed to think him a pickup artist with a bold way of going after what he wanted, even to taking the risk of being thrown out on his ear. But it wasn't her problem and she seemed content to watch his progress with mild interest and wait for Lynn to rise from the table in anger and appeal to the cashier for aid. When that didn't happen and the young man straightened his shoulders and a look of elation came into his eyes the waitress' frown was replaced by a knowing smirk and a glance which said as plain as words: "Brother, you sure are a fast-working stud! Funny--I'd never have taken her for a round-heels." Lynn stared down at the white table-top, picked up a salt shaker and set it down again. She let her gaze stray to the black portfolio and said in an even tone: "We could have discussed your work at the office, and I wouldn't have been in the least bit hasty. You can't just glance briefly at drawings and hope to form a considered artistic judgment. Sometimes you can't even--well, never mind. What I'm trying to say is I think I understand why you preferred to wait until I was through for the day. Office-pressures do interfere--they're a kind of strait jacket. For some people, anyway. I've done things just as--well, impulsive as you just did. Not once, but a dozen times." He leaned toward her eagerly, all of the uncertainty gone from his gaze. "I sure behaved goofy," he said. "But I'm a shy sort of guy. I try my best to hide it but maybe it would be wiser to just accept it, go along with it. I've been told I'm giving it an importance it doesn't deserve."