"A dot," said my lady, "is that which hath position, but no magnitude."

"Possibly," said I. "It hath also a dear voice, which, though it be
produced indefinitely, will never tire. All the same, in view of the
capacity of the Albert Hall, you've not given me much to go on."

"As a matter of fact, each of us is going as a parallel line. And that's
why I can tell you that I like the sound of you, and--oh, well, enough
said."

"Thank you, Dot. And why parallel lines?"

"They never meet. So long."

There was a faint chunk.

My lady had rung off.

Heavily I hung up my receiver.

When the others came in, I was still sitting in the dark at the table,
thinking....

* * * * *

The bitter wind reigned over London for seven long days, meting
untempered chastisement to its reluctant subjects, and dying unwept and
gasping on a Monday night. Tuesday was fair, still by comparison and
indeed. The sun shone and the sky was blue, and the smoke rose straight