“Doing what?”

“Arointing it.  Don’t you know, you say, ‘Aroint thee, witch,’ when you want to get rid of her?  Well, if a witch can be arointed, why shouldn’t she aroint other things?”

“All very well, if you understand the process.  Do you?”

“Of course.  It’s done ‘with woven paces and with waving arms.’  ’Beware, beware; her flashing eyes, her float—­’”

“Stop it!  You shall not make a poetry cocktail out of Tennyson and Coleridge, and jam it down my throat; or I’ll aroint myself.  Besides, you’re not a witch, at all.  I know you for all your big cap, and your cloak, and the basket on your arm.  ’Grandmother, what makes your teeth so white?’”

“No, no.  I’m not that kind of a beastie, at all.  Wrong guess, Guardy.”

“Yet there’s a gleam of the hunt about you.  Is it, oh, is it, the Great American Pumess that I have the honor to address?”

She made him a sweeping bow.  “In a good cause.”

“About which I shall doubtless hear to-morrow?”

“Don’t I always confess my good actions?”

“At what hour does the victim’s dying shriek rend the quivering air?”

“Mr. Surtaine is due here at half past eight.”

“Humph!  Young Surtaine, eh?  Shy bird, if it has taken all this time to bring him down.  Well, run and dress.  It’s after five and that gives you less than three hours for prinking up, counting dinner in.”

Whatever time and effort may have gone to the making of the Great American Pumess’s toilet, Hal thought, as he came down the long room to where she stood embowered in pink, that he had never beheld anything so freshly lovely.  She gave him a warm and yielding hand in welcome, and drew away a bit, surveying him up and down with friendly eyes.

“You’re looking unusually smart to-night,” she approved.  “London clothes don’t set so well on many Americans.  But your tie is askew.  Wait.  Let me do it.”

With deft fingers she twitched and patted the bow into submission.  The touch of intimacy represented the key in which she had chosen to pitch her play.  Sinking back into a cushioned corner of the settee, she curled up cozily, and motioned him to a chair.

“Draw it around,” she directed.  “I want you where you can’t get away, for I’m going to cast a spell over you.”

“Going to?” The accent on the first word was stronger than the reply necessitated.

“Do many people ask favors of an editor?”

“More than enough.”

“And is the editor often kind and obliging?”

“That depends on the favor.”

“Not a little bit on the asker?”

“Naturally, that, too.”

“Your tone isn’t very encouraging.”  She searched his face with her limpid, lingering regard.  “Did you bring the proofs?”

“Yes.”

Still holding his eyes to hers, she stretched out her hand to receive the strip of print, “Do you think I’d better read it?”