“Well, if you took French leave this time, you can easily do it again.” “But this time it was a novelty. I was curious to find out how I should enjoy an afternoon with you?” “Rubbish. You knew perfectly well you would enjoy it immensely. So did I. Two people who like each other always know those kind of things at once.” Hal leaned back in her chair, and her expressive mouth twitched in a way that made him long to kiss it hard. “There are occasions when I don’t like you at all,” she said. “Fibber again. When don’t you like me?” “Chiefly when you are quite positive certain sure that I do.” “Well, that is never; so you are a fibber.” “I thought you seemed particularly confident nine seconds ago.” “I was only teasing you. I could hardly have been serious after you have called me a worm, and an old man. So now—when will you come again?” “In about a month. Let’s go out as Guys on the fifth of November.” “A month be blowed! I want to know which day next week?” “I am full up next week.” “Full up of what?” “Lorraine Vivian, Dick Bruce, Quin, the Beloved Chief, and the Baby.” “What a list! Is Lorraine Vivian the actress? Who are Quin and the Baby?” “She is… and they are!…” “Who does the Baby belong to?” “It would be difficult to say. About a dozen probably claim him.” “And doesn’t he know his own mother?” “Oh, I wasn’t thinking of mothers.” “Who were you thinking of?” “The ladies who have lost their hearts to him.” “I see. Are you one of them?” “I am not. You see, his beauty has never struck me all of a heap, because I’ve got so used to it.” “Is he a beautiful baby, or a youth, or a man?” “A bit of all three. He stands 6 ft. 5 ½ in., and is superbly handsome. I call him sometimes, for variation, the stuffed blue-and-gold Apollo.” “Well, that’s better than ‘a positive worm’,” laughing, “but I don’t mind him. Who is Quin?” “Quin is a philanthropist, sentimentalist, and hero. He spends his life working in the East End.” “I don’t mind him either, and Dick Bruce I’ve seen. The actress doesn’t count, and your precious chief you see every day. Now, then, when will you come again?” He got up from his seat and came round to her side of the table. He had a vague intention of imprisoning her hand, and perhaps her waist, but some indescribable quality held him off. It was difficult to suppose she did not half guess what was in his mind, and yet, without showing the smallest consciousness or shyness, she faced him with a look so boyishly frank and open it utterly disarmed him. “I am not a bit more persuasive on my right side than my left, and I have promised next Saturday to the Three Graces—who are Dick and Quin and Baby. We are going to the Crystal Palace to see a football match.” “Then what about Sunday?” “Oh, I can’t come on Sunday.” “Why not?” “I hardly know, except that it usually belongs to Dudley or Dick.” “Next Sunday needn’t.” “Well, that’s what I don’t know.”