About a week later, when Katharine came down to breakfast, Phyllis Hyam threw her a letter, in her unceremonious fashion. "Look here!" she said. "I've kept you a chair next to mine, and I've managed to procure you a clean plate, too; so don't go away to the other table, as you did yesterday. Polly's gone; and I won't talk unless you want to. Come on!" Katharine sat down absently on the hard wooden chair, and began to read her letter. She never wanted to talk at breakfast time, a fact which Phyllis good-naturedly recognised without respecting. To-day she was more silent than usual. "No, I can't eat any of that stuff," she said to the proffered bacon. "Get me some tea, will you? I'll make myself some toast." Phyllis trotted off to the fire instead, and made it herself; and Katharine returned to her letter without noticing her further. Judging from the tense look on her face, it was of more than ordinary interest. "Dear Miss Katharine," it ran, A school in which I have a little influence is in want of a junior mistress. I have no idea as to the kind of work you want, but if it is of this nature, and you would like to consider it further, come up and see me about it in my chambers. I shall be in at tea-time, any afternoon this week. The best way for you to get here is to come to the Temple Station. Do not think any more about it, if you have already heard of something else. Yours sincerely, PAUL WILTON. "Of course," said Katharine aloud, "I shall go this very afternoon." Then she paused, and looked smilingly into Phyllis Hyam's hot face. "No; I mean to-morrow." "What?" said Phyllis, looking perplexed. "I thought you wanted it now, and I made it on purpose." "You dear thing! of course I want it now. You are an angel of goodness, and I am a cross old bear," exclaimed Katharine, with a burst of unusual cordiality; and Phyllis was consumed with curiosity as to the writer of that letter. It was not difficult to find Paul Wilton's chambers among the quaint old buildings of Essex Court; and Katharine, as she toiled up the massive oak staircase, stopping on every landing to read the names over the doors, felt that she had reached a delightful oasis of learning in the middle of commercial London. "How splendid to be a man, and to have brains enough to live in a place like this," she thought enthusiastically; and then, with the cynicism that always dogged the steps of her enthusiasm, she added, "It probably only wants money enough, though." Paul Wilton opened his own door to her. He looked really glad to see her, and Katharine flushed with pleasure when he kept hold of her hand and drew her into his room. "This is most good of you," he said; and on the impulse of the moment Katharine let herself be surprised into an indiscretion.