“I’ve never made the same mistake since,” she finished, “and now, if the chief sees my paragraphs, he has to ring some one up occasionally, and make sure I haven’t gone out of bounds altogether.”
“Well, if you’re quite determined to lie... I mean romance... why not do it thoroughly? Let the King leap out of the carriage, with the Queen in his arms, and the royal coachman fall backwards off the box—and—and—both the horses burst out laughing?”
“I’d get the sack for that,” Hal spluttered, busily plying her pencil, “and then I’d break my heart, because I’m in love with the chief.”
“Oh”—with a low laugh, “and is it quite hopeless?”
“Quite. The most hopeless grande passion that ever was. He’s been married twice already, and the second is still very much alive. Did the Queen wear a black hat, or a dark purple one?”
“Dark purple, of course, like her dress. Why, I could write the thing better than you.”
“I’m sure you could, if you might have half the newspaper. I don’t know where you’d be in thirty-six lines!”
“By Jove! Have you got to squeeze it all into thirty-six lines?”
“Less, if possible. There’s been a row in Berlin, and we have to allow for thrilling developments, which may crowd out lots of other paragraphs.”
“And supposing you want it a few lines longer?”