daily. One must have leisure to fall in love; and only the office
boys could assemble enough idle time to call it leisure.

Her desk faced Burlingame's; and Burlingame was the dramatic editor,
a scholar and a gentleman. He liked to hear Kitty talk, and often
he lured her into the open; and he gathered information about
theatrical folks that was outside even his wide range of knowledge.

A drizzly fog had hung over New York since morning. Kitty was
finishing up some Sunday special. Burlingame was reading proofs.
All day theatrical folks had been in and out of this little
ten-by-twelve cubby-hole; and now there would be quiet.

But no. The door opened and an iron-gray head intruded.

"Will I be in the way?"

"Lord, no!" cried Burlingame, throwing down his proofs. "Come along
in, Cutty."

The great war correspondent came in and sat down, sighing gratefully.

Cutty was a nickname; he carried and smoked - everywhere they would
permit him - the worst-looking and the worst-smelling pipe in
Christendom. You may not realize it, but a nickname is a round-about
Anglo-Saxon way of telling a fellow you love him. He was Cutty, but
only among his dear intimates, mind you; to the world at large, to
presidents, kings, ambassadors, generals, and capitalists he is
known by another name. You will find it on the roster of the Royal
Geographical; on the title page of several unique books on travel,