It was eleven p.m. Her steps rang loudly along the deserted pavements; occasionally she lurched forward as if desiring to increase her pace, and this disturbed the rhythmic beat of her steps. She passed nobody, except at the junction of Hanson Street, where a couple of belated revellers slunk past with the furtive attitude of those who know they ought to have been home long since. They were too intent upon their destination to notice her. Only where there were large front gardens did her passing excite attention, and here congregations of cats, gathered for midnight revelry, dispersed with mournful sound as her footsteps approached. At the corner of the High Street she stopped. It seemed to occur to her for the first time that to carry one’s hat and overcoat upon such a night was in some degree unusual. With careful deliberation she put them on. Then she laughed softly, and her laugh was a strange mingling of rapture and defiance. That which she had thought impossible had come to pass. After years of undeviating placidity fate had at last done something dramatic with her. She had been turned out of the house at No. 24, Kitchener Road. Her father had done what he had never before been known to do: he had lost his temper, and lost it thoroughly. He had said: “My God, Cathie, I won’t stand that! ... Out you go!” He had pushed her into the lobby, and while she was reaching for her hat and coat he had struck her on the face with the back of his hand. “Out you go!” he repeated, and Catherine saw that his temper had not yet reached its height. “I’m done with you! ... Are you going?” He actually picked up an umbrella and began brandishing it with his hand grasping the ferrule. Catherine had opened the front door in vague terror of what he was going to do. The door was banged after her with a vicious kick from within. Then her cheek where he had struck her began to hurt.... § 2 The cause of the altercation had been Catherine’s determination to accept a situation which he did not wish her to accept. She had answered the advertisement, interviewed her prospective employer, and received word that she had been appointed before even mentioning the matter to him. Then at teatime on a Friday afternoon she casually remarked: “By the way, I’ve decided to get some work.” He looked up at her as if the word were unfamiliar to him. “Work?” he said, astounded. “What do you mean?” “I mean I’ve applied for a job and been offered it.” He seemed to have difficulty in comprehending what she said. “A job? What job?” “They want a pianist at a cinema. Good salary. Only work in the evenings....” “But, my dear girl----” “Well?” “Don’t cut me short like that.... I was about to say....” “Oh, I know what you’re about to say. You’re hopelessly against it, aren’t you?” “Well, if I am, you----” “Why are you?”