“What is your favourite pastime? Shall I put down shooting? I know you don’t know one end of a gun from the other, but it doesn’t matter; and it reads rather well—something unique about it in an actress.” “Why not put angling, and give some of my dear enemies a chance to ask what for?” “Or jam-making,” suggested Alymer, “and redeem the stage in the eyes of the British matron.” “Oh, don’t talk… how can I write? Shall I bring myself in, and dig up the dear old chestnut of David and Jonathan?… or shall I describe Dudley’s disapproval melting into undisguised worship,” she rippled with laughter as she scribbled on. “Oh dear, think if Dudley were to find it, and read it, because he hasn’t even discovered yet that he has ceased to disapprove. “Who’s your favourite poet? I might say Dick Bruce; he would write a book of poems at once. And Quin might be your hero in real life. Do you know where you were born? Up in the Himalayas sounds nice and airy, and it might as well have been there as anywhere.” “If you want anymore you must get it while I eat my dinner,” said Lorraine, rising. “I have to try and be at the theatre at seven just now. You may as well both dine with me, and you can come to my dressing-room afterwards if you like, Hal.” “No, thank you”; and Hal pulled a wry face. “I’ve seen quite enough of the wings, and the green-room, and all the rest of it. You might take Baby, just to show him the real thing, and put him off it once for all.” She turned to Hermon. “Have you ever been behind the scenes? I used to go sometimes, just for the fun of it, while it was a novelty; but it quite cured me of any possible taste of the stage. Most of the performers were so nervous they could hardly speak, their teeth just chattered with cold and fright mingled, and the gloom of it was like a vault. And then all the gaping, staring faces in rows, looking out of the darkness. You can’t think how idiotic people look seen like that. It always suggested to me that both stage and stalls were like children playing at being lunatics.” “That’s only your dreadfully prosaic, unromantic mind, Hal. You just like to write newspaper articles, and type letters, and smother your imagination under dry-and-dust facts.” “Smother my imagination,” echoed Hal, with a laugh. “Why, it would take the imaginations of fifty ordinary people to concoct some of the paragraphs we fix up during the week. My imagination is a positive goldmine at the office, at least it would be if they dare print all that I suggest.” “You should run a paper yourself,” suggested Hermon; “a few libel actions would made it pay like anything.” “Ah, you haven’t seen Dudley,” with a little grimace. “Dudley would have a fit and die before the first action had had time to reach its interesting stage. I’d take you home to see him now, but he happens to have gone up to Holloway to dinner.”