“That’s saying a whole lot, isn’t it?” she observed with crushing irony. “I’m glad you find yourself superior in some way to Ralph Atwood, and that conceited Hubert Quirk, and that idiotic McMasters boy.

“But you don’t begin to understand, Douglas. You think the little bits of unimportant things are great big things. You’re terribly pleased because you can sing for the radio three times a week and in the church exercises Sundays; you think it’s a great honor and a big success, and you’re willing to stop right there.”

“But, Kitty, the manager out at the electric plant says we surely have made a hit. He told me himself that we’d be getting offers from the big vaudeville people, and—and only tonight, he said he dropped into the studio to hear me sing, ’cause he’d got the idea that I had just the kind of a voice for radio speaking and announcing. He said there might be a chance for me to be a regular announcer. That’s the truth!”

“Not really!” she sighed, crushing him again. “I suppose you think you’d be written up in the magazines. Young man started with nothing but a baritone voice, and got to be a real radio announcer, all on his merits without any pull or influence or anything.

“You’d get almost enough money as a radio announcer to support a wife—the way you’ve hoped to do—but, of course, the wife would have to work, too, to keep up household expenses.”

“Huh! That’s it! You’d better go ’n’ marry a millionaire right off. I didn’t know.”

“And you don’t know now—not anything, Douglas Raymond! I’m not a mercenary girl, but if I ever get married I’ll choose a man who has some pride and some reasonable ideas. You speak of being a radio announcer as you’d speak of being president of a railroad or something.”

“You needn’t think it’s such a bum job! Some of ’em get mighty big pay, and they’re famous, and sign contracts like movie stars.”

“How many? Some baseball players get mighty big pay and sign big contracts, but how many? Why don’t you start in being a Babe Ruth, seeing you know as much about baseball as you do the radio business?

“Oh, Douglas, I’m afraid you haven’t got what people call a sense of values. You don’t see things as other men do. If you were a bell hop over at the hotel, your ambition would be to get to be the captain of the bell hops—never the manager or owner of the hotel.”

“Well,” he said sullenly, “I can’t start right in being an Edison or a Marconi, can I?”

“No, you’re not the type to do anything like that,” she said witheringly. “You do start things, but never finish them; you’re too easily led off the track by all the things you see around you.

“You started as a pretty fair singer, and if you really wanted to do that sort of thing you ought to have worked with all your might to be a Caruso or a Chaliapin; but here you sit down in Port Cardinal—twenty-three years old—and are tickled to death to sing every other night for the radio—a lot of silly songs, and you have no further plans, Mister Raymond—except to be a radio announcer!”

“Gee! I never heard you carry on like this before!” he groaned. “How do you know what’s going on inside my head, Kitty? You must admit I never go around boasting of what I can do. But I’ve got some mighty big ideas in my old bean.

“This radio stuff is all new to me, but I’m keen about it. No reason why a man shouldn’t dig right in, if he likes it, and get to be the head of a big corporation or something.”

“I know!” she said skeptically. “But your keen enthusiasm won’t last long, Doug. Next time you get to talking of your plans, you’ll want to manage the biggest jazz band in America, or be the biggest chicken farmer in the country, or learn to fly and go out after Lindy’s record. Oh, it makes me sick to say these things to you, but I’m not the only one that can see it.”

“Is that so? Been talking me over at the breakfast table with the wise one, eh?”

“That’s like me, isn’t it?” she demanded sharply. “I didn’t have to talk with any one. I’ve been tortured by this whole miserable lot of frumps and jackasses, the whole evening. The old women and the old maids think you’re all right, but the others never speak of you with respect, Doug. They’re either patronizing or insulting.

“Making fun of your singing—casting slurs on you from all directions—talking about you as they wouldn’t dare talk about the average young man; they don’t seem to have any fear that you’ll resent it, or do what most men would do if they were insulted.”

“Is that so!” growled Douglas, bristling. “Well, I might surprise you and the rest of ’em. I’ll walk upstairs right now and give Mr. Ralph Atwood a sock in the eye that’ll shake ’im loose from his dollar-an’-a-half necktie. By—golly!”

“Oh, why don’t you swear, if you feel like it? You might let out one good honest damn at least, and I’d have more respect for you, Doug Raymond!”

“Why, Kitty Granby!” he gasped. “My good grief! You do just about hate me, don’t you? Say, is that the way folks feel about me? Do they think I’m just a poor piece o’ cheese, just because I sing for a living and don’t act like a hard-boiled pug around the house? I’ve tried to be decent to people, but I guess it don’t pay, at that! Hell!”

“That’s pretty good,” she remarked with a bored smile, “but it was rather forced. Don’t swear on my account. And I don’t think Miss Perkins would like it, either. She thinks very well of you, I’m sure, just as you are. When two persons meet who are thoroughly congenial, they should cultivate each other’s society.”

“Hah! So, Kitty Granby! It is because you—it’s just because I—because Miss Perkins said—well, about walking—and on account o’ my being polite to—Miss Perkins only meant to say that—”

“What,” she demanded acidly, “are you trying to say?”

“You’re jealous!” he announced heavily.

“You lie!” she flared back at him, and a sob choked her. “I couldn’t be—jealous of anything I despised, could I? You and Miss Perkins are made for each other! She’s a brainless baby doll. She’s a thousand times prettier than I am—thank God!

“I wouldn’t be seen out with her big black googly eyes, and her vanishing-cream complexion and cherry lips. I’m glad I’ve got little eyes and a big mouth, and a pug nose, and mouse-colored hair. And I’m glad I can’t play the piano or sing. Maybe I’ve got brains, though, if I haven’t anything else.”

“Oh, Kitty, please calm down and let’s talk this thing over,” he said despairingly.

“I don’t care to talk anything over with a man that’s conceited enough to think I’m jealous of an overgrown schoolboy like him, and a brainless china doll that opens and shuts its eyes. There!

“I don’t intend to run away from this house just because you’re here, Mr. Raymond, but I’ll thank you not to speak to me again. We are not on speaking terms hereafter, and I’d like you to understand that perfectly.”

“All right! Good night, Miss Granby! If you’re that kind of a—a woman, it’s a good thing I found it out in time. That’s all I got to say!”

III.

Kitty darted past him as the bird flits, apparently without regard to angles and turns. She was a small person, extraordinarily quick and agile, and she seemed to make the flight from the middle of the parlor to the first landing of the staircase in three bounds.

Three more might have taken her to the door of her room on the third floor, but unfortunately there was an obstacle on the landing; a shadowy figure rose with a little frightened cry directly in her path, and there was a sickening crash, two screams, and then two distinct thuds as of small, hard fists landing on something soft.

“Glad—you listened—cat!” panted and gurgled Kitty, as she delivered the blows, and then she swiftly completed her flight without further halt or interruption.

That did not close the episode, however. Doors opened, and startled voices challenged the darkness.

Ottilie Eldom slipped from her room, second floor front, swiftly, like a rather substantial wraith and pounced on the huddled figure on the landing.

“Shut up, hussy!” she hissed softly in Miss Dora Perkins’s ear, and gave her an admonitory cuff, effectively shutting off a wail of anguish.

“Oh, what—what is it?” cried Miss Bascom from her doorway.

“Hey! What’s wrong down there?” rumbled Horace Sheldon from another quarter.

“All right, now!” called back Ottilie Eldom in a cheerful tone. “But who let this cat in anyhow? I nearly broke my neck, getting up the stairs.”

“Hm! Sounded like two cats fighting, when I woke up,” growled Mr. Sheldon.

“Thanks for the pretty compliment, kind sir,” returned Ottilie. “Hope you lie awake till morning, just for that.

“It’s all right, folks!” she added. “You can all go back to bed; but don’t let any more cats into this house hereafter.”

“You’re a cat yourself!” Miss Perkins breathed sibilantly.

“And I scratch. Look out!” returned Ottilie, pushing her roughly aside and mounting the steps to her room.

Miss Perkins, white-faced, with black eyes as large as saucers, descended in her bewilderment to the hall. She stood there, wavering uncertainly, a subtly appealing picture in her pink dressing robe of soft and clinging substance, her little feet tucked into tiny satin slippers. Then: