those rare
occasions when her husband talked to her. But she never quite realised
what the topic under discussion was, although she nodded or shook her
head as she believed was necessary to the occasion.

"Another paper?" cried Kathleen.

"And why not?" asked Mrs. Quirk. "Denis knows what he is saying and
doing. Why not another paper if Denis wants it? And what colour would it
be, Denis?"

Denis Quirk laughed heartily at his mother's misapprehension, but he
threw his arm around her and stooped to kiss her.

"Black and white," he replied; "a newspaper, old lady, up to date and
go-ahead, like the old 'Firebrand.'" Then he turned again to Kathleen.
"You don't know me," he said. "You imagine I am nothing better than a
talker; just wait for three months before you judge me."

Therewith he swung out of the room. A few minutes later Kathleen saw him
striding rapidly down the avenue on his way towards Grey Town. But she
had other things to do besides thinking of Denis Quirk. No sooner was he
out of sight than she had settled Mrs. Quirk comfortably in an
easy-chair on the balcony, and was reading to the old lady until the
latter fell into a peaceful sleep.

It was a quiet and monotonous life for a young girl. Mrs. Quirk was now
so dependent upon her that she must have Kathleen always by her side.
This was not due to selfishness on the old lady's part. She did not
understand that young people need a certain amount of amusement and
pleasure to make their lives complete. Kathleen, being wholly unselfish
in her nature, considered it her sole duty to look after the old lady.
Mr. Quirk, too, had made Kathleen his secretary and accountant. When she
was not with Mrs. Quirk, the girl was generally to be found surrounded
by accounts and business letters.

It was thus that Denis Quirk found her on his return from the town.

"Do you ever go out?" he asked her, imperatively.

"Every day," she answered.

"To theatres and dances?" he asked.

"I have no time for such frivolities," she answered, laughingly. "I am a
working woman now, with every moment occupied."

"Pshaw!" he answered, impatiently. "You need readjusting; you all need
readjusting. Life was never intended to be a mere drudgery."

At tea--the Quirks still clung to the old scheme of meals of the
Collingwood days--as they sat around the large table, he suddenly asked
his father:

"Why don't you buy a motor, Dad?"

Samuel Quirk glared at his son for some moments in