with laughter as she scribbled on. "Oh dear, think if Dudley were to
find it, and read it, because he hasn't even discovered yet that he has
ceased to disapprove.

"Who's your favourite poet? I might say Dick Bruce; he would write a
book of poems at once. And Quin might be your hero in real life. Do
you know where you were born? Up in the Himalayas sounds nice and
airy, and it might as well have been there as anywhere."

"If you want anymore you must get it while I eat my dinner," said
Lorraine, rising. "I have to try and be at the theatre at seven just
now. You may as well both dine with me, and you can come to my
dressing-room afterwards if you like, Hal."

"No, thank you"; and Hal pulled a wry face. "I've seen quite enough of
the wings, and the green-room, and all the rest of it. You might take
Baby, just to show him the real thing, and put him off it once for all."

She turned to Hermon.

"Have you ever been behind the scenes? I used to go sometimes, just
for the fun of it, while it was a novelty; but it quite cured me of any
possible taste of the stage. Most of the performers were so nervous
they could hardly speak, their teeth just chattered with cold and
fright mingled, and the gloom of it was like a vault. And then all the
gaping, staring faces in rows, looking out of the darkness. You can't
think how idiotic people look seen like that. It always suggested to
me that both stage and stalls were like children playing at being
lunatics."