Heaven's sake, Steve, go and talk to her while I dress. I'll be down in
a minute."

"Sure. What's her name?"

"Mrs. Porter. You'll like her. Tell her all about yourself--where you
were born, how much you are round the chest, what's your favourite
breakfast food. That's what she likes to chat about. And tell her I'll
be down in a second."

Steve, reaching the studio, found Mrs. Porter examining the
boxing-gloves which had been thrown on a chair.

"Eight-ounce, ma'am," he said genially, by way of introduction.
"Kirk'll be lining up in a moment. He's getting into his rags."

Mrs. Porter looked at him with the gimlet stare which made her so
intensely disliked by practically every man she knew.

"Are you a friend of Mr. Winfield?" she said.

"Sure. We just been spieling together up above. He sent me down to tell
you he won't be long."

Mrs. Porter concluded her inspection.

"What is your name?"

"Dingle, ma'am."