“We don’t expect to get in on tea and buns; we expect to get it on whisky and beer. That is to say, we expect the course of events to prove that tea and buns conduce to a frame of mind better able to cope with the questions of the day than the whisky and beer drained in such quantities by men.” “And when you’ve got it you’ll all vote for the man who happens to be good-looking, and who can pay you the prettiest compliments.” “A few will vote that way, no doubt, but not the majority. Women are not so fond of pretty men as they were”; and her lips curled significantly. “Pretty men!…” he echoed, with enjoyment. “Little woman, you have a neat way of putting things.” He was silent a few minutes, then added: “I suppose, down at that office they are all in love with you?” “I don’t know. I haven’t asked them,” with twinkling eyes. “I’m a bit in love with the chief myself.” “Oh, your are, are you? And what aged man might he be?” “Oh, he’s quite old,” she laughed; “somewhere about forty-eight.” “And is he in love with you?” “It just depends. Sometimes he’s rather fond of me on a Saturday; but on Mondays he loathes me.” “I see. And are you as changeable?” “No, I love him always; but on Mondays it’s mostly from habit. On Saturdays it’s from choice.” He looked down at her, and it was on the tip of his tongue to state some commonplace about being jealous. Then suddenly he looked back to his steering wheel, and the commonplace sentence died unspoken. Quite unaccountably he felt less inclined to flirt and more inclined to be really friendly, and for some distance they skimmed along in silence. They had tea at the Star and Garter, both chatting volubly on the most interesting topics of the day. Hal’s newspaper work had made her cognisant of many subjects very few girls of her age would even have heard of, and her original criticisms delighted him. It was a gay little tea-table, and the time slipped by with extraordinary rapidity. Hal noticed it first. “Do you know it is half-past six?” she said, “and I’m dining out tonight. We must fly.” “Is it really past six?…” in astonishment. “How the time has flown! You know, you are such an entertaining little woman, you make me forget everything but yourself.” He looked at her hard, and the force of habit caused him to add: “I doubt if any other woman I know today could have given me so much pleasure.” “Well, you needn’t thank me,” with her low, fresh laugh, “because I came entirely to give myself pleasure.” “Then I hope you have succeeded. I see it is quite hopeless to expect any sort of a complimentary speech from you.” “Quite; though I don’t mind admitting I have been very enjoyably entertained as well.” “That is something, anyhow. And now I suppose you are going straight off home to dress, and dine with some one else, and forget about me?” “I don’t suppose I shall forget you. It happens to be a journalist dinner, and probably we shall tear you to pieces between us before we have finished.”