He slid from his seat and disappeared. Jill clutched at Derek.

"Oh, Derek, it's too awful. I've just been talking to the man who
wrote this play, and I told him it was the worst thing I had ever
seen!"

"Did you?" Derek snorted. "Well, it's about time somebody told him!"
A thought seemed to strike him. "Why, who is he? I didn't know you
knew him."

"I don't. I don't even know his name."

"His name, according to the programme, is John Grant. Never heard of
him before. Jill, I wish you would not talk to people you don't
know," said Derek with a note of annoyance in his voice. "You can
never tell who they are."

"But . . ."

"Especially with my mother here. You must be more careful."

The curtain rose. Jill saw the stage mistily. From childhood up, she
had never been able to cure herself of an unfortunate sensitiveness
when sharply spoken to by those she loved. A rebuking world she could
face with a stout heart, but there had always been just one or two
people whose lightest word of censure could crush her. Her father had
always had that effect upon her, and now Derek had taken his place.

But if there had only been time to explain . . . Derek could not
object to her chatting with a friend of her childhood, even if she