"But however in the world would one know where to begin?" giggled the Satellites. "Or how to break it off so it wouldn't end like the edge of a tin roof! Even if you started all right with a nice molten wave? What about the--last wave? The problem of the horizon sense? Yes! What about the horizon sense?" shouted everybody at once. From the shadowy sofa-pillowed corner just behind the supper table, young Kennilworth's face glowed suddenly into view. But a minute before I could have sworn that a girl's cheek lay against his. Yet now as he jumped to his feet the feminine glove that dropped from his fidgety fingers was twisted with extraordinary maliciousness, I noted, into a doll-sized caricature of a "Vamp." "I could put the ocean into bronze, Mr. Delville," he said, "if anybody would give me a chance!" Perhaps it was just this very ease and excitement of having booked anyone as perfect as young Kennilworth for the part of Someone with a Future that made me act as impulsively as I did regarding Ann Woltor. We were sitting in our room in a Washington hotel before a very smoky fireplace one rather cross night in late January when I confided the information to my Husband. "Oh, by the way, Jack," I said quite abruptly, "I've invited Ann Woltor for Rainy Week." "Invited whom?" questioned my Husband above the rim of his newspaper. "Ann Woltor," I repeated. "Ann--what?" persisted my Husband. "Ann Woltor," I re-emphasized. "Who's she?" quickened my Husband's interest very faintly. "Oh, she's a woman," I explained--"or a Girl--that I've been meeting 'most every day this last month at my hair-dresser's. She runs the accounts there or something and tries to keep everybody pacified. And reads the darndest books, all highbrow stuff. You'd hardly expect it! Oh, not modern highbrow, I mean, essays as bawdy as novels, but the old, serene highbrow,--Emerson and Pater and Wordsworth,--books that smell of soap and lavender, as well as brains. Reads 'em as though she liked 'em, I mean! Comes from New Zealand I've been told. Really, she's rather remarkable!" "Must be!" said my Husband. "To come all the way from New Zealand to land in your hair-dresser's library!" "It isn't my hair-dresser's library!" I corrected with faint asperity. "It's her own library! She brings the books herself to the office. "And just what part," drawled my Husband, "is this New Zealand paragon, Miss Stoltor, to play in our Rainy Week?" "Woltor," I corrected quite definitely. "Ann Woltor." "Wardrobe mistress?" teased my Husband. "Or----?" "She is going to play the part of the Someone With a Past," I said. "What?" cried my Husband. His face was frankly shocked. "_What_?" he repeated blankly. "The most delicate part of the cast? The most difficult? The most hazardous? It seemed best to you, without consultation, without argument, to act so suddenly in the matter, and so--so all alone?"