answered.

"I'm not interested in your troubles, I want mine attended to."

"Entirely feminine."

"Yes, it is selfish----"

"I said feminine."

"I heard you. I want you to lunch with me at two."

"I cannot possibly do it," he interrupted her.

"It isn't social, it is business, and it must be attended to to-day."

"I'm sorry, but----"

"Mr. Trent, I assure you it is a matter of serious importance. I feel
justified in insisting upon your professional attention for one hour
to-day. If you prefer, I will come to you."

Trent's face showed his annoyance.

"I cannot take time for lunch. I'll be there at three."

"Thank you."

He hung up the receiver impatiently and returned to his work. A few
minutes before three he set out for the hotel where Barbara Garratry
lived. He was annoyed at himself for coming--probably some foolishness
which could just as well be attended to over the telephone. He knew the
actress only slightly.

He had acted as her attorney in one or two minor cases when she needed
legal help. He had found her sensible and intelligent--for a woman.
Susceptible to beauty, he had felt her charm, and even promised himself
that some day he would take time to know her. She interested him,
because all successful people interested him. It was his only measure.
At forty he found himself envied by men, his seniors in his profession.
He had served as State's attorney, he was on the eve of trying for a
bigger prize, but to-day, as he made his way along the crowded street,
in answer to Barbara Garratry's summons, his mood was a bit cynical.
Life held no locked doors for him--he had peered behind them all, as
Father Confessor. Men he found open books, women, thin volumes not worth
the reading. To-day he had a sense of isolation from his fellows, a wave
of loneliness, almost futility. This "average man," who passed him on
the street, had his home, his wife, and children to match with Trent's
"bigger issues."

He was invited to Miss Garratry's sitting-room at once. Her maid
admitted him, and she came to greet him. He was struck again with a
certain poignant quality in her, although her smile was merry.

"I know how furious you are at having to come."

"On the contrary, I am honoured."

"You are unremittingly courteous, considering that you are you."

"Which means?"

"I know in what poor esteem you hold women," she smiled.

"You do me a great injustice," he began.

"You do yourself one," she interrupt