“Indeed, you ought to be,” was the gay rejoinder. “I’ve been just dying for the moment when you would remember.”
An electric bell rang out as they were lighting their cigarettes, and a moment later Hal danced into the room with shining eyes and glowing cheeks. A few paces from the door she stopped suddenly.
“Hullo, Baby,” she said, addressing Hermon, “where have you sprung from?”
“I found it wandering alone in Sloane Street,” Lorraine remarked, “and now we’ve been teaing together.”
Alymer did not look any too pleased at Hal’s frank appellation, but former remonstrance had only been met with derision, and he knew he had no choice but to submit with a good grace.
“I might ask the same question, Lady-Clerk,” he replied.
“Don’t call me a lady-clerk—I hate the term. I’m a typist, secretary, bachelor-girl, city-worker, anything you like, not a lady-clerk—bah!…”
“Then don’t call me Baby.”
Hal’s face broke into the most attractive of smiles.
“I can’t help it. Everything about you, your size, your face, your ways just clamour to be called ‘Baby’. Of course if you’d rather be Apollo—”