Alymer did not look any too pleased at Hal’s frank appellation, but former remonstrance had only been met with derision, and he knew he had no choice but to submit with a good grace. “I might ask the same question, Lady-Clerk,” he replied. “Don’t call me a lady-clerk—I hate the term. I’m a typist, secretary, bachelor-girl, city-worker, anything you like, not a lady-clerk—bah!…” “Then don’t call me Baby.” Hal’s face broke into the most attractive of smiles. “I can’t help it. Everything about you, your size, your face, your ways just clamour to be called ‘Baby’. Of course if you’d rather be Apollo—” “Good Lord, no: is that the only alternative?” “I’m afraid so; you needn’t go if you don’t want to,” as he prepared to depart. “We are not going to talk grown-up secrets.” “If I were Mr. Hermon, I’d give you one good shaking, Hal,” put Lorraine. “I’m sure you deserve it.” “Not a bit. Nothing could do him more good than regular interviews with me, to undo all the harm he has received in between from silly, idiotic women, who make him think he is something out of the ordinary. Isn’t that so, Baby? Aren’t you labouring under the delusion that you’re a remarkable fine specimen of humanity? And all the time, Heaven knows, you’ve about as much honest purpose and brains as a big over-grown school-boy.” “I hope you are not intending to imply he is more richly endowed with dishonest purpose?” said Lorraine. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind that,” Hal declared, “so long as it was energy and purpose of some kind.” “Even to giving you that good shaking,” he asked, coming forward a step menacingly. “Not in here,” in alarm; “you and I scrapping in Lorraine’s drawing-room would cost a hundred pounds or so in valuables. I’ll cry ‘pax’,” as he still advanced. “Of course you are rather a fine boy really, I was only pulling your leg.” Hermon subsided with a laugh, and Hal proceeded to explain that she had come on business, having been asked by the editor of one of their small magazines to write up an interview with the actress for him. “I shall say I found you having a cosy tête-à-tête with a young barrister of many inches and little brains,” she laughed. “Come, Lorraine, spout away. What is your favourite _hors d’œuvre?_ Did you feel like a boiled owl at your first appearance? And which horse do you back for next year’s Derby?” She started scribbling, to the amusement of the other two, carrying on a desultory conversation meanwhile. “This isn’t anything to do with my department, but I like Mr. Hadley, and he was keen about it, and offered me three guineas, so I said I’do do it… Are your eyes yellow or green? For the life of me, I don’t know. Which would you rather I called them? … I’ve got to go to Marlboro’ House tomorrow to get up a short and vivid account of a garden party, because Miss Alton, who generally does it, is down with ‘flu’. Were you a prodigal as a kid? no; I mean a prodigy… Fancy me at Marlboro’ House! Awful thought, isn’t it? How they dare?