e into books, or send them to her friends,
having first drawn a broad bar in blue pencil down the margin, a
proceeding which signified equally and indistinguishably the depths of
her reprobation or the heights of her approval.

About four o'clock on that same afternoon Katharine Hilbery was walking
up Kingsway. The question of tea presented itself. The street lamps were
being lit already, and as she stood still for a moment beneath one of
them, she tried to think of some neighboring drawing-room where there
would be firelight and talk congenial to her mood. That mood, owing to
the spinning traffic and the evening veil of unreality, was ill-adapted
to her home surroundings. Perhaps, on the whole, a shop was the best
place in which to preserve this queer sense of heightened existence.
At the same time she wished to talk. Remembering Mary Datchet and her
repeated invitations, she crossed the road, turned into Russell Square,
and peered about, seeking for numbers with a sense of adventure that was
out of all proportion to the deed itself. She found herself in a dimly
lighted hall, unguarded by a porter, and pushed open the first swing
door. But the office-boy had never heard of Miss Datchet. Did she belong
to the S.R.F.R.? Katharine shook her head with a smile of dismay. A
voice from within shouted, "No. The S.G.S.--top floor."

Katharine mounted past innumerable glass doors, with initials on them,
and became steadily more and more doubtful of the wisdom of her venture.
At the top she paused for a moment to breathe and collect herself.
She heard the typewriter and formal professional voices inside, not
belonging, she thought, to any one she had ever spoken to. She touched
the bell, and the door was opened almost immediately by Mary herself.
Her face had to change its expression entirely when she saw Katharine.

"You!" she exclaimed. "We thought you were the printer." Still holding
the door open, she called back, "No, Mr. Clacton, it's not Penningtons.
I should ring them up again--double three double eight, Central. Well,
this is a surprise. Come in," she added. "You're just in time for tea."

The light of relief shone in Mary's eyes. The boredom of the afternoon
was dissipated at once, and she was glad that Katharine had found them
in a momentary press of activity, owing to the failure of the printer to
send back certain proofs.

The unshaded electric light shining upon the table covered with papers
dazed Katharine for