sought to save the situation, as well as to remove the
subject of the talk from resting solely on herself.

"If that is all you want," she answered lightly; "you surely will find
Mrs. Brenton's name offering you all sorts of inspiration, much better
than anything mine could give."

"Mrs. Brenton?" The little novelist was palpably uncertain as to whom
the name belonged. He was not only Unitarian by theology, but
inattentive by profession; and, moreover, he had but just returned from
a copy-hunting trip in the direction of his raucous West.

"Yes." Olive made signals of distress in the direction of the rector's
wife who was bending above her salad, with every appearance of anxious
absorption in her tour of discovery among its elements. Her colour
betrayed her, though, and Olive judged it would be the part of wisdom
to drag her by the heels into the talk. "Mrs. Brenton, I am just
telling Mr. Prather what a benefactor you ought to be considered,
according to his notion about names. Surely, yours is unusual enough to
win his full approval."

Even as she spoke, Olive realized the vapidness of her words and was
ashamed of them. An instant later, though, her shame exchanged itself
for astonishment.

The rector's lady raised her brows, and spoke with studied
carelessness.

"Really, Miss Keltridge," she said calmly; "there is nothing so very
unusual in the name of Kathryn."

"Kathryn!" Olive fairly stuttered over her reply, for she saw Scott
Brenton's eyes turn to his wife, and she read amazement in them,
amazement and something else that was dangerously akin to contempt. "I
thought your name was Catia, Mrs. Brenton."

But Kathryn Brenton laid down her fork, as though the salad had ceased
to interest her. Then she spoke, and her accent conveyed the same
impression as concerned the conversation.

"Oh, no; Catia is just a little nickname. That is all. My name is
really Kathryn."

And then, for an instant and to her lasting shame, Olive Keltridge's
glance sought that of Brenton. Before the hurt and abased look in his
deep gray eyes, her own eyes dropped, ashamed and pitiful. What right
had she, in a moment so tragic, albeit so very, very petty, to spy upon
him in his disappointment? What right to obtrude her honest sympathy
upon his secret pain?

She dropped her eyes, then, promptly. None the less, Scott Brenton
realized that, alone of all the group about the table, Olive Keltridge
had recognized both elements: the se