"This rivals Dinny O’Sullivan’s donkey barrow! My teeth are fairly rattling in my boots!" Nell said "yes" with weary dutifulness. The silence fell again. He rubbed his brow, and recognised the uselessness of worrying them with such palpably unreal cheerfulness. All his castles in Spain were, for the time being, razed to the ground. With the O’Briens there was no possibility of a story or two tumbling; the whole edifice had to tower to the skies or fall flat to the ground. The omnibus drew up outside No. 35, Henley Road. They got out, and stood a moment—a forlorn little group—looking at the tall, narrow house, with, to their eyes, such an unhappy air of being wedged in too tightly between the two neighbouring houses. "Run in and knock, while I pay up," Denis admonished them. They trailed slowly up the flight of steps. Nell knocked. There was a pause; then they heard a step approaching the door. With a sudden spasmodic burst of awakened conscience and courage Nell drew herself erect and tried to achieve a smile. The rattle of bars and chains that heralded the opening of the door was hideous to their unaccustomed ears; it shocked them with its clang of inhospitality—its suggestion of suspicion. Miss Kezia opened the door a cautious inch or two and peered out. Her face appeared to them, against the light, very long and very black. "It’s you," she said; "come in." Nell faltered, calling together all her stock of politeness, "I’m sorry that you had to sit up for us." Miss Kezia waved it aside with a curt response that a little loss of sleep would not hurt her. There was porridge waiting for them in the dining room. Too wretched, too apathetic to make the necessary stand against it, they sat down to the table and tried to eat. The dining room was furnished strictly for use and not for ornament. Heavy chairs and a heavier sideboard constituted all the furniture, save the table. The floor was covered with a cold linoleum. There was no flower in the room. Only one gas-burner was alight, and it left gloomy corners. There was a stiff look about it all, a poverty and bareness that was bewilderingly new to them. A beautiful little cocker spaniel, who pressed close to them with plaintive whimpers when they entered the room, looked quite out of place there. Miss Kezia eyed her with disfavour. She demanded, "Where will that dog sleep?" The want of due respect in the designation roused Sheila Pat. She said coldly, "Her name is Kate Kearney." "What a ridiculous name!" Miss Kezia ejaculated. The Atom was indignant. "Is it rickelous? And how about Kezia, then?" There was a pause. Denis interposed amusedly: "Perhaps you don’t know the song, Aunt Kezia? It’s like this—" Gaily his voice sang out:— "’Oh, did you not hear of Kate Kearney? She lives on the banks of Killarney—’ "Eh? Noise? _Noise_?" he murmured surprisedly. "Allow me just to whisper the lines that fit K.K. so beautifully:—