He glanced at the clock. "I'll give you five minutes," he said.
"Interview me."

She moved to a chair beside the desk, and, opening her bag, took out a
writing-block.

"What are your principles?" she asked him. "Have you got any?"

He looked at her sharply across the corner of the desk.

"I mean," she continued, "to what fundamental rule of conduct do you
attribute your success?"

She leant forward, fixing her eyes on him. "Don't tell me," she
persisted, "that you had none. That life is all just mere blind chance.
Think of the young men who are hanging on your answer. Won't you send
them a message?"

"Yes," he answered musingly. "It's your baby face that does the trick.
In the ordinary way I should have known you were pulling my leg, and have
shown you the door. As it was, I felt half inclined for the moment to
reply with some damned silly platitude that would have set all Fleet
Street laughing at me. Why do my 'principles' interest you?"

"As a matter of fact they don't," she explained. "But it's what people
talk about whenever they discuss you."

"What do they say?" he demanded.