Flirtation. They sat in the soft light of shaded lamps in on of these modern, old-fashioned, oak rooms of a small but cosy café. Around them rose the gentle hum of subdued conversation, interrupted now and then by the clearer note of spoons and teacups. They had just finished tea, and Ronald Allison, an artist of about thirty, was leaning back in his chair, lazily smoking a cigarette, and watching his companion. Agnes Heatherley's clear, pale profile and well-poised, little head showed up well on the dark oak panels, he thought in a detached manner. Suddenly he leant forward.