It was a Sunday evening in October, and in common with many other young ladiesof her class, Katharine Hilbery was pouring out tea. Perhaps a fifth part ofher mind was thus occupied, and the remaining parts leapt over the littlebarrier of day which interposed between Monday morning and this rather subduedmoment, and played with the things one does voluntarily and normally in thedaylight. But although she was silent, she was evidently mistress of asituation which was familiar enough to her, and inclined to let it take its wayfor the six hundredth time, perhaps, without bringing into play any of herunoccupied fa