"That's only your dreadfully prosaic, unromantic mind, Hal. You just
like to write newspaper articles, and type letters, and smother your
imagination under dry-and-dust facts."

"Smother my imagination," echoed Hal, with a laugh. "Why, it would
take the imaginations of fifty ordinary people to concoct some of the
paragraphs we fix up during the week. My imagination is a positive
goldmine at the office, at least it would be if they dare print all
that I suggest."

"You should run a paper yourself," suggested Hermon; "a few libel
actions would made it pay like anything."

"Ah, you haven't seen Dudley," with a little grimace. "Dudley would
have a fit and die before the first action had had time to reach its
interesting stage. I'd take you home to see him now, but he happens to
have gone up to Holloway to dinner."

"I'm dinning out myself, so I must fly." He turned to Lorraine, with a
gay smile. "I say, may I come and dine with you some other time?"

"Come to the Carlton on Sunday, will you?"

Lorraine hardly knew why she made the sudden decision; she only knew
perfectly well she would have to break another engagement to keep it,
and that she was foolishly gland when he accepted.

"It's all right; you needn't ask me," volunteered Hal, as her friend
glanced at her. "I'm going motoring with Dick, and I shall insist upon
staying out until ten or eleven. I always try and fill my Sundays full