Vivie:  “He’s still more devoted to cricket, fortunately; and as soon as Rose and Lilian had gone he was off too....  Only, I fancy, he discards Regent’s Park now in favour of Hendon or Herne Hill...”

Norie:  “Now, about Frank Gardner...”

Vivie:  “Yes, that cablegram....  Let’s frame it and send it off as soon as we can; then get tea ready.  Talking of tea:  I was just thinking before Frank’s letter came how much good you’d done me—­in many other ways than setting me up in business.”

Norie:  “Shut up!...”

Vivie:  “How, when we first worked together, I used to think it necessary to imitate men by drinking an occasional whiskey and soda—­though I loathe spirits—­and smoking a cigar—­ugh!—­And how you drew me back to tea and a self-respecting womanliness—­China tea, of course, and cigarettes.  Why should we have wanted to be like men?... much better to be the New Woman....

“As to Frank’s cablegram...” (Goes to bureau, tries over several drafts of message, consults Postal Guide as to cable rates per word, and reads aloud) ...  “How’s this?  ’Captain Frank Gardner Camp Hospital Colesberg Cape Colony.  Sorry must say no Best wishes recovery writing.  Vivie.’  That’ll cost just Two pounds and out of the balance I shall buy a good parcel of books to send him, and some strawberries and cakes for our tea.” (Therewith she puts on hat carefully—­for she is always very particular, in a young-gentlemanly way, about her appearance—­goes out to send off cablegram from Chancery Lane post-office, buy strawberries and cakes from Fleet Street shops, and so back to the office by four o’clock.  Meantime Norie is reading through some of the recent correspondence on the file.)

Vivie (on her return):  “Pouf!  It was hot in Fleet Street!  I’m sorry for poor Frankie, because he seems so to have set his heart on marrying me.  But I do hope he will take this answer as final.”

Norie:  “I suppose you are not refusing him for the same old reason—­that vague suggestion that he might be your half-brother?”

Vivie:  “Oh no!  Besides I pretty well know for a fact he isn’t, he simply couldn’t be.  I’m absolutely sure my father wasn’t Sam Gardner, any more than George Crofts was.  I believe it was a young Irish seminarist, some student for the priesthood whom my mother met in Belgium the year before I was born.  If I ever find out more I will tell you. You haven’t seen ‘Soapy Sam,’ the Vicar of Woodcote, or that beast, George Crofts; but if you had, you’d be as sure as I am that neither of them was my father—­thank goodness!  As to Frank—­yes—­for a short time I was fond of him—­till I learnt about my mother’s ‘profession.’  It was rather a silly sort of fondness.  He was two years younger than I; I suppose my feeling for him was half motherly ...  I neither encouraged him nor did I repel him.  I think I was experimenting