“Yes, today.” Her lips suddenly twitched with irresistible humour. “He called me ‘Hal’ and Lorraine ‘wifey.’ We bore it bravely.”
“What business had he to call you by your Christian name?”
“None. I suppose he just felt like it. He also alluded to my new hat as a bonnet. Also he used to be an office-boy or something. He seemed inordinately proud of it.”
“I loathe a self-made man who is always cramming it down one’s throat. I don’t see how you can have much in common with either of them any more.”
Hal got up, as if she did not want to pursue the subject.
“It won’t make the smallest difference to Lorraine and me,” she said.
Dudley knit his forehead in vexation and perplexity, remarking:
“Of course you mean to be obstinate about it.”
“No,” with a little laugh; “only firm.” She came round to his chair and leant over the back it.
“Dear old long-face, don’t look so worried. None of the dreadful things have happened yet that you expected to come of my friendship with Lorraine. The nearest approach to them was the celebrated young author I interviewed, who asked me to go to Paris with him for a fortnight, and he was a clergyman’s son who hadn’t even heard of Lorraine. Next, I think, was the old gentleman who offered to take me to the White City. I don’t seem much the worse for either encounter, do I? and it’s silly to meet trouble halfway.”