“But in a few years from now you won’t be a reporter.”

“Shall I still be privileged to invite Miss Raleigh to supper—­or was it tea?”

“You’re still angry.  That isn’t fair of you when I’m being so frank.  I’m going to be even franker.  I’m feeling that way to-night.  Comes of being tired, I suppose.  Relaxing of the what-you-callems of inhibition.  Do you know there’s a lot of gossip about us, back of stage?”

“Is there?  Do you mind it?”

“No.  It doesn’t matter.  They think I’m crazy about you.”  Her clear, steady eyes did not change expression or direction.

“You’re not; are you?”

“No; I’m not.  That’s the strange part of it.”

“Thanks for the flattering implication.  But you couldn’t take any serious interest in a mere reporter, could you?” he said wickedly.

This time Betty laughed.  “Couldn’t I!  I could take serious interest in a tumblebug, at times.  Other times I wouldn’t care if the whole race of men were extinct—­and that’s most times.  I feel your charm.  And I like to be with you.  You rest me.  You’re an asset, too, in a way, Ban; because you’re never seen with any woman.  You’re supposed not to care for them....  You’ve never tried to make love to me even the least little bit, Ban.  I wonder why.”

“That sounds like an invitation, but—­”

“But you know it isn’t.  That’s the delightful part of you; you do know things like that.”

“Also I know better than to risk my peace of mind.”

“Don’t lie to me, my dear,” she said softly.  “There’s some one else.”

He made no reply.

“You see, you don’t deny it.”  Had he denied it, she would have said:  “Of course you’d deny it!” the methods of feminine detective logic being so devised.

“No; I don’t deny it.”

“But you don’t want to talk about her.”

“No.”

“It’s as bad as that?” she commiserated gently.  “Poor Ban!  But you’re young.  You’ll get over it.”  Her brooding eyes suddenly widened.  “Or perhaps you won’t,” she amended with deeper perceptiveness.  “Have you been trying me as an anodyne?” she demanded sternly.

Banneker had the grace to blush.  Instantly she rippled into laughter.

“I’ve never seen you at a loss before.  You look as sheepish as a stage-door Johnnie when his inamorata gets into the other fellow’s car.  Ban, you never hung about stage-doors, did you?  I think it would be good for you; tame your proud spirit and all that.  Why don’t you write one of your ‘Eban’ sketches on John H. Stage-Door?”

“I’ll do better than that.  Give me of your wisdom on the subject and I’ll write an interview with you for Tittle-Tattle.”

“Do!  And make me awfully clever, please.  Our press-agent hasn’t put anything over for weeks.  He’s got a starving wife and seven drunken children, or something like that, and, as he’ll take all the credit for the interview and even claim that he wrote it unless you sign it, perhaps it’ll get him a raise and he can then buy the girl who plays the manicure part a bunch of orchids. He’d have been a stage-door Johnnie if he hadn’t stubbed his toe and become a press-agent.”