He was reading every expression on her face. “Fifteen years,” she answered. “I was a bit older than ’im. But I’ve never looked my age, they tell me. Lord, what a boy ’e was! Swept you off your feet, like. ’E wasn’t the only one. I’d got a way with me, I suppose. Anyhow, the men seemed to think so. There was always a few ’anging about. Like flies round a ’oney-pot, Mother used to say.” She giggled. “But ’e wouldn’t take No for an answer. And I didn’t want to give it ’im, neither. I was gone on ’im, right enough. No use saying I wasn’t.”!

“I thought you were something,” answered the girl. “I’m an artist. Or, rather, was,” she added after a pause. “Wasting my time and money hanging about newspaper offices, listening to silly talk from old fossils,” she told him.

“It is daring,” she admitted. “I must be prepared for opposition. But it had to be stated.” “Let me think of you,” she said, “as taking my place, pushing the outposts a little further on.” “I am paid a thousand a year,” so Greyson read to them, “for keeping my own opinions out of my paper. Some of you, perhaps, earn more, and others less; but you’re getting it for writing what you’re told. If I were to be so foolish as to express my honest opinion, I’d be on the street, the next morning, looking for another job.”