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the reproof.”
    “Oh—oh, sir, I wasn’t reproving you!” She was quite horrified at the word, in connection with “the big noise from headquarters.”
    “You were, you know,” he said. But a smile just touched the corners of his very firm mouth.
    Then Mr. Naylor put down the telephone and observed with some satisfaction, “That’s all right, Miss Tadcaster . I’ll get hold of Miss Robbins, and see that she takes over. Mr. Everton says he’s sending down a car for you now if you can be ready in ten minutes.”
    “You mean—” Ruth was a good deal taken aback at this change in Mr. Naylor’s manner, persuasive though she knew the young producer could be “—you mean—I can go?”
    “Yes, of course. As Mr. Everton says, it will be a very pleasant bit of publicity for the hotel. I hadn’t thought of that. You’d better get ready quickly. I think they are rather short of time for their rehearsal.” Then, turning to Michael Harling, he added with a smile, “A very special occasion. But worth it, I think.”
    To this Mr. Harling merely said, “I suppose we have a television screen somewhere in the hotel?” And then they went off, leaving Ruth to throw on her hat and coat, telephone hastily to her mother to explain as much as she could of what had happened during the day and then to compose herself as well as she could for her debut on television.
    At the last moment she also remembered to telephone Aunt Henrietta’s room to suggest that Mr. Tadcaster should pick her up from the Excelsior soon after six.
    “That will give you time to exchange greetings with mother before you settle down to see me on—on television. If you want to, I mean,” Ruth added more modestly, as she recalled that her total length of appearance might well be two minutes.
    “My dear child, of course I want to see you. It’s all so exciting!” Somehow Aunt Henrietta’s warm, interested voice made Ruth feel as though she were about to play the leading role in an important production. “You really are a most unusual family.”
    There was no time to explain just then that they were really a very ordinary, if likable family, for—looking through the glass entrance door—Ruth could see that one of those handsome cars from the studio had just driven up outside.
    So she cried, “Goodbye,” and hung up the receiver.
    Then, followed by the admiring good wishes of those of the staff who happened to be handy, she ran through the foyer, out of the hotel and jumped into the waiting car.
    The next few hours were really some of the most exciting in Ruth’s life so far. She was whisked away to the other end of the town and deposited at the entrance of a rather shabby group of buildings. Here she presented herself at a reception desk, where the indifferent air of a languid blonde secretly excited her professional contempt.
    At the mention of Angus Everton’s name, however, the blonde’s manner changed.
    “You’d like a dressing room, I expect,” she said, and handed Ruth a key. “Straight down there on the right. Number six. And Mr. Everton is in Studio 2.”
    “Thank you.” Ruth took her key and, trying to look as though this were all in a day’s work for her, she set off in search of her dressing room.
    When found, the room disclosed an extraordinarily bare-looking interior, with pegs on the back of the door, and a mirror running all along one wall, with a shelf beneath it. Ruth took off her hat and coat and hung them on a peg, inspected herself in the mirror, combed her hair, dusted powder on her nose and finally—feeling that she ought somehow to have managed to make more use of the only private dressing room she was ever likely to have—ventured forth in search of Studio 2.
    A passing man in shirt sleeves directed her along a short passage to a door that bore the intimidating notice, Studio 2. QUIET PLEASE. Do Not Enter If Red Light Is Showing.
    Only a reassuring green light appeared to be showing, so Ruth pushed open the