"I shouldn't dream--" Kate began, when whizz went the bell, and she was cut off. She rang again, got the inquiry office, found that 4,073 was a hairdresser's shop, once more got 4,073, spoke to the proprietor, learned that the telephone had been hired for an hour by a gentleman who had some business to transact. No, the gentleman had just gone. No, they didn't know who he was: never seen him before--Miss O'Neill's ring off had a touch of temper in it. She went back to the deep soft chair and tried to bring her thoughts once more to the subject that had been in hand before the interruptions came. She was a business woman, and had trained herself to concentrate the whole of her mind on any matter she chose. But somehow those two little words "My father" kept cropping up; and presently she began trying to picture what her mother was like. She went to the telephone and called up a theatre agency. She had to say three times over "Athenæum--Westbourne Grove" before the young man at the other end grasped the name, and she was rewarded by hearing him laugh as he said he had no seats for Sir Edward Day-Pearce's lecture that evening. "Where can I get one?" she demanded. "At the door, madam," was the polite response. "I believe the prices of entrance are threepence, sixpence, and one shilling, unless you happen to be a subscriber." Supposing the whole thing were a hoax to draw her there, and by some means to make her look ridiculous? It was quite likely. She was a successful woman, and had already learned that one of the prices of success is the spitting of spite and envy. But difficulties did not often stay long in the path of Miss Kate O'Neill. She picked up a telephone directory, turned the pages, found a number, called it up, and made certain arrangements. Thereafter she dressed, dined, and took Mrs. Craven to laugh over the new piece at the Gaiety. But poor Kate found even the Gaiety dull that night. There was a man on the stage with a red head. He was not in the least like Carter either in looks, speech, or manner, but--well, it must have been the hair which persisted in calling up that unpleasant train of thought which kept her vaguely irritated throughout all the evening. There was a bundle of type script waiting for her when she got back to the flat, which happened to be the verbatim report of Sir Edward Day-Pearce's lecture which she had arranged that two stenographers should go and take down for her, but she did not choose to open this before the keen eyes of Aunt Jane. Instead she waited till that astute old lady should see fit to go to bed, and watched her eat sandwiches, drink a tumbler of soda-water lightly laced with whiskey, and listened to a résumé of all the other plays that had filled the Gaiety boards since the house was opened. At the end of which Kate had the final satisfaction of being laughed at.