had disapproved of the man from the instant when he shuffled across
the shop and sat down opposite to her, at the same marble-topped table
which already held her large coffee (3d.), her roll and butter (2d.),
and plate of tongue (6d.).

Now this particular corner, this very same table, that special view of
the magnificent marble hall--known as the Norfolk Street branch of the
Aerated Bread Company's depots--were Polly's own corner, table, and
view. Here she had partaken of eleven pennyworth of luncheon and one
pennyworth of daily information ever since that glorious
never-to-be-forgotten day when she was enrolled on the staff of the
_Evening Observer_ (we'll call it that, if you please), and became a
member of that illustrious and world-famed organization known as the
British Press.

She was a personality, was Miss Burton of the _Evening Observer_. Her
cards were printed thus:

[Illustration: Miss MARY J. BURTON. _Evening Observer_.]

She had interviewed Miss Ellen Terry and the Bishop of Madagascar, Mr.
Seymour Hicks and the Chief Commissioner of Police. She had been present
at the last Marlborough House garden party--in the cloak-room, that is
to say, where she caught sight of Lady Thingummy's hat, Miss
What-you-may-call's sunshade, and of various other things modistical or
fashionable, all of which were duly described under the heading "Royalty
and Dress" in the early afternoon edition of the _Evening Observer_.

(The article itself is signed M.J.B., and is to be found in the files of
that leading halfpennyworth.)

For these reasons--and for various others, too--Polly felt irate with
the man in the corner, and told him so with her eyes, as plainly as any
pair of brown eyes can speak.

She had been reading an article in the _Daily Telegraph_. The article
was palpitatingly interesting. Had Polly been commenting audibly upon
it? Certain it is that the man over there had spoken in direct answer to
her thoughts.

She looked at him and frowned; the next moment she smiled. Miss Burton
(of the _Evening Observer)_ had a keen sense of humour, which two years'
association with the British Press had not succeeded in destroying, and
the appearance of the man was sufficient to tickle the most ultra-morose
fancy. Polly thought to herself that she had never seen any one so pale,
so thin, with such funny light-coloured hair, brushed very smoothly
across the top of a very obviously bald crown. He looked so timid and
nervous