ramed in fretted
Moorish arches of white-enamelled wood. Three persons were just emerging
from one of these. She sprang within, and sank into a wicker arm-chair.

"There is always a table," she breathed, surveying the whole scene with
a smile of conquest.

George sat down opposite to her with his back to the hall; he could
survey nothing but Lois, and the world of the mirror behind her.

"That's one of father's maxims," she said.

"What is?"

"'There is always a table.' Well, you know, there always is."

"He must be a very wise man."

"He is."

"What's his special line?"

She exclaimed:

"Don't you know father? Hasn't Miss Wheeler told you? Or Mrs. Orgreave?"

"No."

"But you must know father. Father's 'Parisian' in _The Sunday Journal_."

Despite the mention of this ancient and very dignified newspaper, George
felt a sense of disappointment. He had little esteem for journalists,
whom Mr. Enwright was continually scoffing at, and whom he imagined to
be all poor. He had conceived Mr. Ingram as perhaps a rich cosmopolitan
financier, or a rich idler--but at any rate rich, whatever he might be.

"Of course he does lots of other work besides that. He writes for the
_Pall Mall Gazette_ and the _St. James's Gazette._ In fact it's his
proud boast that he writes for all the gazettes, and he's the only man
who does. That's because he's so liked. Everybody adores him. I adore
him myself. He's a great pal of mine. But he's very strict."

"Strict?"

"Yes," she insisted, rather defensively. "Why not? I should like a
strawberry ice, and a lemon-squash, and a millefeuille cake. Don't be
alarmed, please. I'm a cave-woman. You've got to get used to it."

"What's a cave-woman?"

"It's something primitive. You must come over to Paris. If father likes
you, he'll take you to one of the weekly lunches of the Anglo-American
Press Circle. He always does that when he likes anyone. He's the
Treasurer.... Haven't you got any millefeuille cakes?" she demanded of
the waitress, who had come to renew the table and had deposited a basket
of various cakes.

"I'm afraid we haven't, miss," answered the waitress, not comprehending
the strange word any better than George did.

"Bit rowdy, isn't it?" George observed, looking round, when the waitress
had gone.

Lois said with earnestness:

"I simply love these big, noisy places. They make me feel alive."

He looked at her. She was very well dressed--more stylistic than any
girl