A thought of the work piled on her desk cut her walk to a scant hour. To her disappointment a gray town-car stood at the annex curb. Inside she strolled up the corridors, wondering where she should wait. Around a turn she came upon Mr. Brill, the over-fleshed, over-moneyed and over-old “thorn” in Dr. Willard’s flesh. Evidently the deacon was taking a respite from the choir trial to enjoy a cigar. As he had been most affable on the several occasions when she had met him in the pastor’s study, Dolores greeted him pleasantly. “Caught me, didn’t you, Miss Trent?” he returned, a bad-boy grin slinking up his baggy cheeks. “You won’t tell on a poor addict who prefers Lady Nicotine to _some_ lady sopranos?” “Would that be anything to tell, Mr. Brill? Dr. Willard fairly clouds the study. I don’t see any harm in smoking.” “I suppose you don’t see harm in anything Dr. Willard does?” Although the “central pillar” shook with mirth, his eyes strained at her through the double-lens glasses fastened with a black ribbon to his lapel. “Wouldn’t you, now, join me in a puff or two or three?” “No, sir. No, thank you,” said Dolores. “Don’t be silly. You just said you see no harm in it. Everybody smokes nowadays, the women as much as the men.” “I know, Dr. Brill, but----” “But if you have scruples, I’ll be only too glad to swear that _I_ won’t tell. Come, we’ll have a little social puff and chat.” Dolores tried to be good-natured, even when he gripped her arm and propelled her into one of the small committee rooms. When, however, he took from a gold case a slender, perfumed cigarette, lighted it and essayed to place it between her lips, resentment moved her. “Really, Mr. Brill, I never have smoked and I don’t care to begin now. I--I must be getting back to my work.” As she started from the room he lunged across a table and caught her. “But I am here to show you how. One lifts the terrible thing in the fingers, so----” His pudgy left arm caught hers. The smaller fingers of his dimpled right hand pressed up her chin. Thumb and forefinger sought to force between her set teeth the lip-wet smoke. When she realized that his foot was trying to push shut the door, an emotion new to Dolores suddenly controlled her. “I don’t wish to smoke, I tell you. I don’t _wish_ to be shown.” With the indignant words she beat him upon the face and chest until he fell back gasping. “Aha, a wild-cat is Nimrod’s latest trophy--a live one, at that!” Dolores remembered his chuckled comment after she had forced back the door and rushed from the committee room. Down the corridor and around a turn to the study she ran without one backward glance. Beside the couchant lynx she stopped, startled as looked the couple she had interrupted. Within a scant foot of each other stood Dr. Willard and a woman whom, somewhere, she had seen before. “I beg your pardon, but I----”