“No more there is!” said Hilda cheerfully. “I never dreamed I was such a coward till that night—” “You mislaid your courage—that was all—but you’ll find it again presently, and look here, Kitty! Until my brother finds something for you to do—” “Oh, is he going to try?” “John never tries—at least he never seems to; he just does. But never mind about that now. I was going to say that you can help me a bit, if you feel so disposed.” “How? Tell me quick!” “You used to type for your father, didn’t you?” “Yes, yes! I must show you the work I did for him. I believe I was fairly smart, but after five years, I’m afraid—” “You’ll knock off the rust in no time. You can work away on my old machine most mornings, and when you feel it coming easy I’ll give you plenty of manuscript, my own and other people’s, too, if you want it. How’s that?” “All the difference in the world, for it means I shan’t be entirely useless. Oh, you have made me so happy!” “Go on!” laughed Hilda. “I like being cuddled!” But there were tears in her eyes. “Goodness!” she exclaimed next moment, “there’s somebody coming up Jacob’s Ladder!”—as she designated the steep and narrow wooden staircase leading to the flat. “A man, I should say, from the tread. Shall we flee and tidy ourselves, or simply draw down the sun blind?” She rose and went to the window. “It must be the blind, I’m afraid. Matilda is unusually alert in answering the door to-day. Don’t be alarmed, Kitty. I’ve no friends who aren’t nice, and I want you to meet them all sooner or later. Now let’s arrange ourselves at our ease, and hope it may be a particularly nice one to begin with.” Kitty was smiling despite her nervousness when the elderly servant, whom Hilda’s brother insisted on her retaining, announced “Mr. West.” It was at once evident to Kitty that he and Hilda were the best of friends. Next moment he was introduced to her, and there was something in his handshake as well as in his eyes that took away half her shyness. “Miss Carstairs has come from Scotland to spend a little time with me,” Hilda said presently, “so you must give her as good an impression of the journalistic life as you can.” “You are not in the trade, I hope, Miss Carstairs?” he said, with a faint smile; then, suddenly—“But pardon me, perhaps you are a friend of Hugh Carstairs, of Glasgow, who wrote so brilliantly some years ago. I met him once in a friend’s house just before I came to London.” “He was my father,” Kitty said softly, with a flush of pleasure. “Then you and I shall have at least one big subject in common,” he said warmly. “This is splendid!” said Hilda, smiling. “Mr. Carstairs was my ideal journalist,” Anthony went on. “I’ve often wondered why he never wrote books. Perhaps he hadn’t the time—” “Miss Carstairs has just been telling me,” said the hostess, “that she has in her possession several unfinished works of her father’s—” “Not here? not in London?” he cried eagerly.