He was afraid he was invariably known as Michael, and Miss Carlyle sighed at the stiff sort of a name it was.
“Mine’s Poppy,” she volunteered. “That’s much more free and easy. Or I think so,” she added rather doubtfully, as Michael did not immediately celebrate its license by throwing pillows at her. “Are you really lodging here?” she went on. “You don’t look much like a pro.”
Michael said that was so much the better, as he wasn’t one.
“I’ve got you at last,” cried Poppy. “You’re a shop-walker at Russell’s.”
He could not help laughing very much at this, and the queer pink room seemed to become more faded at the sound of his merriment. Poppy looked offended by the reception of her guess, and Michael hastened to restore her good temper by asking questions of her.
“You’re on the stage, aren’t you?”
“I usually get into panto,” she admitted.
“Aren’t you acting now?”
“Yes, I don’t think. You needn’t be funny.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”