"You told him?" cried Thompson incredulously, his interest still keener than his appetite.
"I did," she replied airily, "and he dropped a hint at Scotland Yard. I believe the gallant gentleman in Shaftesbury Avenue has something more than a smack and an inky face to remember little Gladys by. He doesn't advertise for secretaries now."
Thompson gazed at her, admiration in his eyes.
"But that doesn't explain why I always want to please the Chief, does it?" she demanded. "In romance, the knight kills the villain for making love to the heroine, and then gets down to the same dirty work himself. Now the Chief ought to have been bursting with volcanic fires of passion for me. He should have crushed me to his breast with merciless force, I beating against his chest-protector with my clenched fists. Finally I should have lain passive and unresisting in his arms, whilst he covered my eyes, ears, nose and 'transformation' with fevered, passionate kisses; not pecks like yours, Tommy; but the real thing with a punch in them."
"What on earth——" began Thompson, when she continued.
"There should have been a fearful tempest on the other side of his ribs. I should——"
"Don't talk rot, Gladys," broke in Thompson.
"I'm not talking rot," she protested. "I read it all in a novel that sells by the million." Then after a moment's pause she continued:
"He saved me from the dragon; yet he doesn't even give me a box of chocolates, and everybody in Whitehall knows that chocolates and kisses won the war. When I fainted for him and he carried me into his room, he didn't kiss me even then."
"You wouldn't have known it if he had," was Thompson's comment.