As she grew more confidential (and secrecy was not her failing), Doré herself was surprised at the daring of the nurse's life. She spoke lightly of things that Doré did not approve of--now. She had met men in unconventional ways, without introduction, according to a fancy--the expression is "picked up." When Doré demurred, she said, with western frankness: "Say, how _would_ I meet them, then? Oh, I manage them all right--after! That's where their little surprise comes in!" And she began to tell of the time when she had flirted with two well-known club men at the Horse Show, men who were dying to speak to her, but were afraid on account of the presence of curious others. But, in passing near them, they had slipped their cards into her pocket. Of course, she had not written them--she had met them by chance afterward at a restaurant; but she had not been offended by their advance. They were of her steady acquaintance now. But Doré's incursion into this curious society brought her small amusement. She grew tired quickly of these too easily read admirers. Then after what she had known, they were all second-chop. The company of Estelle Monks interested her more. Since the morning she had surprised her in the office of the _Free Press_, her curiosity had been stirred to further investigation. Estelle Monks herself forestalled her. She came into her rooms suddenly one morning, and plumping down, abruptly inquired: "Do me a favor, Dodo?" "Any!" "Don't mention to Mr. Harrigan Blood that I inhabit these quarters!" Doré, puzzled, a little embarrassed too, moved away, saying: "What do you mean? Why not?" "No offense to you, bless you!" said Estelle Monks, with a curious smile. "You see, I'm on the paper. He--well, he wouldn't quite relish the idea of tripping over me when he turns up with a bunch of flowers." "You exaggerate," said Doré nervously. "Harrigan Blood's not really interested." "H. B.'s a damned fascinating man," said Estelle Monks directly, "but he doesn't like reporters about, whether he's serious or not--particularly his own reporters." "He's not serious!" said Doré. Estelle Monks smiled. "That is, he only thinks he is." "I guess you understand him, don't you?" said Estelle Monks, still smiling. "Yes!" She looked at her friend, interested. "What are you doing on the paper? You never told any one." "Raise your hand and cross your heart!" said Estelle solemnly. "I'm Ferdie Amsterdam." "You?" said Doré in amazement. For under that pseudonym was conducted the famous society column of the _Free Press_. "Expert on the Four Hundred--social dictionary." "Honest?" "Since two months!" "But how do you manage?" She told her story. She had come from San Francisco, where she had done some clever work on the papers. She had a few letters of introduction, and she knew a few men of the journalist emigration. She had gone to the _Free Press_ office with an article in hand, _Impressions of a Western Girl_.