not been able to return to the scenes of her former triumphs. In
1915 this darling mother, whom Kitty loved to idolatry, had passed on.

There was enough for the funeral and the cleaning up of the bills;
but that was all. The income ceased with Mrs. Conover's demise.
Kitty saw that she must give up writing short stories which nobody
wanted, and go to work. So she proceeded at once to the newspaper
office where her father's name was still a tradition, and applied
for a job. It was frankly a charity job, but Kitty was never to
know that because she fell into the newspaper game naturally; and
when they discovered her wide acquaintance among theatrical
celebrities they switched her into the dramatic department, where
she had astonishing success as a raconteur. She was now assistant
dramatic editor of the Sunday issue, and her pay envelope had four
crisp ten-dollar notes in it each Monday.

She still remained in the old apartment; sentiment as much as
anything. She had been born in it and her happiest days had been
spent there. She lived alone, without help, being one of that
singular type of womanhood that is impervious to the rust of
loneliness. Her daily activities sufficed the gregarious
instincts, and it was often a relief to move about in silence

Among other things Kitty had foresight. She had learned that a
little money in the background was the most satisfying thing in
existence. So many times she and her mother had just reached the
insurance check, with grumbling bill collectors in the hall, that
she was determined never to be poor. She had to fight constantly
her love of finery inherited from her mother, and her love of good
times inherited from her father. So she established a bank account,