“I can’t, my dear,” said Mr. Wrenn plaintively. “I don’t know why it is, but the mere sight of a woman novelist who is all upset seems to take all the heart out of me. I sometimes wish I could edit some paper like _Tiny Tots_ or _Our Feathered Chums_. I don’t suppose indignant children come charging in on Mason or outraged canaries on Mortimer.... But I was telling you--when I heard her voice in the outer office, I acquainted this young fellow Shotter briefly with the facts, and he most nobly volunteered to go out and soothe her.” “I can’t imagine him soothing anyone.” “Well, he certainly had the most remarkable effect on Miss Blair. He came back ten minutes later to say that all was well and that she had gone away quite happy.” “Did he tell you how he had managed it?” “No.” Another chuckle escaped Mr. Wrenn. “Kay, it isn’t possible--you don’t imagine--you don’t suppose he could conceivably, on such a very slight acquaintance, have kissed her, do you?” “I should think it very probable.” “Well, I’m bound to own----” “Don’t laugh in that horrible, ghoulish way, uncle!” “I can’t help it. I could see nothing, you understand, as I was in the inner office; but there were most certainly sounds that suggested----” Mr. Wrenn broke off. Again that musical chiming had come faintly to his ears. But this time its effect was the reverse of soothing. He became a thing of furious activity. He ran to and fro, seizing his hat and dropping it, picking it up and dropping his brief case, retrieving the brief case and dropping his stick. By the time he had finally shot out of the front door with his hat on his head, his brief case in his hand and his stick dangling from his arm, it was as if a tornado had passed through the interior of San Rafael, and Kay, having seen him off, went out into the garden to try to recover. It was a pleasant, sunny morning, and she made for her favourite spot, the shade of the large tree that hung over the edge of the lawn, a noble tree, as spreading as that which once sheltered the Village Blacksmith. Technically, this belonged to Mon Repos, its roots being in the latter’s domain; but its branches had grown out over the fence, and San Rafael, with that injustice which is so marked a feature of human affairs, got all the benefit of its shade. Seated under this, with a gentle breeze ruffling her hair, Kay gave herself up to meditation. She felt worried and upset and in the grip of one of her rare moods of despondency. She had schooled herself to pine as little as possible for the vanished luxury of Midways, but when she did so pine it was always at this time of the day. For although she had adjusted herself with almost complete success to the conditions of life at San Rafael, she had not yet learned to bear up under the suburban breakfast.