“Do you often go out wading, ten miles from home?” he asked.

“Not very.  I was running away.”

“I didn’t see any one in pursuit.”

“They knew too much.”  Her firm little chin set rather grimly.  “Do you want to hear about it?”

“Yes.  I’m curious,” confessed Hal.

“I went to lunch with another girl and a couple of drummers, out at Callender’s Pond Hotel.  She said she knew the men and they were all right.  They weren’t.  They got too fresh altogether.  So I told Florence she could do as she pleased, but I was for home and the trolley.  I guess I could have made it with a life-preserver,” she laughed.

Hal was surprisedly conscious of a rasp of anger within him.  “You ought not to put yourself into such a position,” he declared.

She threw him a covert glance from the corner of her sparkling eyes.  “Oh, I guess I can take care of myself,” she decided calmly.  “I always have.  When fresh drummers begin to talk private dining-room and cold bottles, I spread my little wings and flit.”

“To another private room,” mocked Hal.  “Aren’t you afraid?”

“With you?  You’re different.”  There sounded in her voice the purring note of utter content which is the subtlest because the most unconscious flattery of womankind.

A silence fell between them.  Hal stared into the fire.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked presently.

“Yes.”

“Do you want something to eat?  Or drink?  What did you have to drink?” he added, glancing at the empty glass on the table.

“Certina.”

“Certina?” he queried, uncertain at first whether she was joking.  “How could you get Certina here?”

“Why not?  They keep it at all these places.  There’s quite a bar-trade in it.”

“Is that so?” said Hal, with a vague feeling of disturbance of ideas.  “Which job do you like best:  the Certina or the newspaper, Miss Neal?”

“My other boss calls me Milly,” she suggested.

“Very well,—­Milly, then.”

“Oh, I’m for the office.  It’s more exciting, a lot.”

“Your stuff,” said Hal, in the language of the cult, “is catching on.”

“You don’t like it, though,” she countered quickly.

“Yes, I do.  Much better than I did, anyway.  But the point is that it’s a success.  Editorially I have to like it.”

“I’d rather you liked it personally.”

“Some of it I do.  The ’Lunch-Time Chats’—­”

“And some of it you think is vulgar.”

“One has to suit one’s style to the matter,” propounded Hal. “’Kitty the Cutie’ isn’t supposed to be a college professor.”

“I hate to have you think me vulgar,” she insisted.

“Oh, come!” he protested; “that isn’t fair.  I don’t think you vulgar, Milly.”

“I like to have you call me Milly,” she said.

“It seems quite natural to,” he answered lightly.