that he could see in the mirror. He could not be sure whether or
not her yellow eyes had a slight cast; if they had, it was so slight as
to be almost imperceptible. There was no trace of diffidence in them;
they commanded. She was not a girl whom you could masculinely protect.
On the contrary, she would protect not only herself but others.

"Haven't you cream?" she curtly challenged the waitress, arriving with
ice, lemon-squash, and George's tea.

The alien mercenary met her glance inimically for a second, and then,
shutting her lips together, walked off with the milk. At Prosser's the
waitresses did not wear caps, and were, in theory, ladies. Lois would
have none of the theory; the waitress was ready to die for it and
carried it away with her intact. George preferred milk to cream, but he
said nothing.

"Yes," Lois went on. "You ought to come to Paris. You have been, haven't
you? I remember you told me. We're supposed to go back next week, but if
Irene doesn't go, I shan't." She frowned.

George said that positively he would come to Paris.

When they had fairly begun the rich, barbaric meal, Lois asked abruptly:

"Why did you write in the middle of the night?"

Sometimes her voice was veiled.

"Why did I write in the middle of the night? Because I thought I would."
He spoke masterfully. He didn't mean to stand any of her cheek.

"Oh!" she laughed nicely. "_I_ didn't mind. I liked it--awfully. It was
just the sort of thing I should have done myself. But you might tell me
all about it. I think I deserve that much, don't you?"

Thus he told her all about it--how he had arranged everything, got a
room, meant to have his name painted on the door, meant to make his
parents take their holiday on the north-east coast for a change, so that
he could study the site, meant to work like a hundred devils, etc. He
saw with satisfaction that the arrogant, wilful creature was impressed.

She said:

"Now listen to me. You'll win that competition."

"I shan't," he said. "But it's worth trying, for the experience--that's
what Enwright says."

She said:

"I don't care a fig what Enwright says. You'll win that competition. I'm
always right when I sort of feel--you know."

For the moment he believed in the miraculous, inexplicable intuitions of
women.

"Oh!" she cried, as the invisible orchestra started a new tune. "Do you
know that? It's the first time I've heard it in London. It's the
_machiche_. It's all over Paris. I