"Have you seen Mavis Rawnsley the last few weeks?"
The question was asked with fearless, impudent abruptness.
"I don't know her to speak to," I said. "You remember we caught sight of her that night the Seraph took us to the theatre."
"The night I undertook to convert the idlest man in the northern hemisphere? Yes."
"The night that same idler undertook to re-convert you. I've not seen her since."
"Has her father?"
"You must ask him."
"I will. In fact, I have already. 'Where is Miss Rawnsley? A rumour reaches us as we are going to press....' You'll find it all in this week's New Militant, I had such fun writing it."
"What was the rumour?"
"We—ell!" Joyce put her head on one side and pretended to spur her memory. "Some one said Mavis Rawnsley had disappeared. Nothing in that, of course; you've disappeared before now. Then some one else said she was being held to ransom till her father was converted to the suffrage. That interested me. None of the papers said anything about it; you'd have thought Mr. Rawnsley was making a mystery of it. However, I wanted to know, so I'm asking the question in the leading article. Perhaps he'll write and tell me. Do you love me enough to give me a match?"